


Home is wherever I'm with you

by Ibbyliv



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Fluff, I'm saying this in an apologetic voice, Internet, Language Kink, Living Together, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Oblivious Enjolras, Paris (City), Pining, Pretentious French, Roommates, Sexual Tension, Smut, but you already know me don't you, coffee shop AU, flatmates, there's so much Paris in this, travelling, yes another one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-02-25 15:05:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2626139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There’s nothing to worry about on this site,” Combeferre interrupts, because they must do something with his lodgement before Enjolras ends up sleeping by the Seine. “I’ve done a quick check, it’s perfectly safe. There is a number of security mechanisms, both for the person who gives the room and for the guest.”<br/>Enjolras doesn’t feel entirely too convinced, truth be told. “No danger of abduction.”<br/>“No organ commerce.”<br/>“No stealing your pretentious French books.”<br/>“Yeah, they probably have them already, considering that they’re, um, French.”<br/>“No unwanted pets that will suck your breath while you sleep.”<br/>“How are you even <em>human?</em>”<br/>“No nonconsensual zombification.”<br/>“No republicans.”<br/><em>Honestly?</em></p><p>Enjolras has somewhat patriotic feelings for a country that isn't his own. In other news (not news) he's always romanticized Paris to the excessive point of making Combeferre sigh <em>vie chère</em> out of his mouth. Now that he's going there, Courfeyrac has found a website where he can crash on people's couches instead of giving money to capitalist hotel chains. Excitement is a good -if not slightly odd- look on Enjolras and everything seems great.</p><p>Or does it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And I could make you fly away but I could never make you stay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StarberryCupcake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarberryCupcake/gifts).



> New fic. Yayy. Exactly what it looks like. A new fic. Midterm. With three extra classes. And a hella lot of French to study. But I had to write this because this fic is literally going to be the journal of my October Paris trip. I simply need to make this fic in order not to forget the best days of my life, and I need to make this now before it starts fading away and becomes less and less real as I get on with my life in this stupid grey city. I went to Paris using [Airbnb](http://www.airbnb.com), which is a wonderful site that I highly recommend for all your future trips since staying in locals' houses is a truly spectacular experience. Of course the state of my love life is far from falling in love with my landlord but aside from that the rest of it is pretty autobiographical. There is going to be much pretentious French and probably far too many mistakes on which I ask for your help. I'm actually begging you to correct my French.  
> I'm pretty aware of the fact that the whole thing, especially the first chapter, is looking exactly the same as my other fic, First Day of my Life. You know, the whole neighbour trope is pretty close to living together, not to mention all the Paris rambling and the essential unrealistic coffee shop AU in which I seem to turn every fricking shit I write. But I promise this is not going to be the same thing. Just wait for the next chapter. Wait for, um, a while, since my uni life has never been more hectic than this semester. I promise though it's going to be ready soon. After all, this is my fic, by which I mean a personal fic, so writing it really means something for me.  
> Dedicated to my lovely Cosette StarberryCupcake just because.  
> Opinins and constructive criticism are always more than welcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from the song All my little words by Magnetic Fields.

“So are you _sure_ that you know what you’re doing?”

Courfeyrac sighs heavily and Enjolras realizes, gravely enough, that the venn diagram of the times that someone says something and someone else sighs in their household is about to become a perfect circle. Of course, living with Combeferre never leaves enough space for maneuvers, but if Courfeyrac starts sporting the Look of Obscene Exasperation, Enjolras will start feeling quite relieved to leave for more than a week. But no, Courfeyrac is always more dramatic. Right now he’s running his hand down his face and raising his narrow eyes to _Bon Dieu,_ or maybe Robespierre’s _Etre Supreme_ , because friends since kindergarten they might be, but Enjolras isn’t going to do another mistake and swear upon his friends religion, not after the Pluto is not a planet conversation with Combeferre last week, nope, _vraiment que non._

“I thought you said you wanted to help independent citizens in need benefit from the money you’d otherwise have to give in capitalist hotel corporations…”

“Well, I _did,_ plus it’s much cheaper than actual hotels, it’s just that we’ve found nothing yet and…”

“Absolute nonsense,” Courfeyrac waves his hand dismissively, confiscating Enjolras’ laptop from his Brave pajama cladded lap and taking it on his half-naked own. “Here,” he gestures emphatically, swishing his chocolate curls in the air as he turns to point to the screen. “You’re talking bollocks. My idea was sublime. You’re a broke student…”

“Not exactly what you’d call broke…”

“Enjolras your parents have cut you off and you can barely pay the rent so you live on Haribo, last time I checked this was close enough to what I’d call broke.”

“Actually he lives on Haribo because I’ve got exams and the last time he tried to cook for himself we had to call the fire department,” Combeferre supplies helpfully, entering the living room with a mug of steamy chocolate in his hands.

“That’s not our point,” Courfeyrac insists.

“Then what is?”

“Our point is,” Courfeyrac heaves a heavy pause, “that through that site you might also find the love of your life.”

Enjolras can feel his cheeks prickling with annoyance as he turns to Combeferre for help, only to not meet the traitor’s eye. “Will you _stop_ with that? I’m honestly appalled that you of all people don’t have the sensibility to fight against a society that preaches that our sole _raison d'être_ is some sort of romantic completion and _sex_ …”

“There’s nothing to worry about, concerning that website though,” Combeferre interrupts him wisely. Not because he disagrees, but because Enjolras is more than stressed out with that trip and, honestly, they must do something with his lodgment before he ends up sleeping under a bridge on the Seine. “I’ve done a quick check, it’s perfectly safe. There is a number of security mechanisms, both for the person who gives you a room and for the guest.”

“Exactly,” Courfeyrac’s face lights up, and he throws his hands in the air, matter-of-factly. “They look up if you’re a murderer, asking, I don’t know, ID and all.” Enjolras doesn’t feel entirely too convinced, truth be told. “No danger of abduction.”

“No organ commerce.”

“No stealing your pretentious French books.”

“Yeah, they probably have them already, considering that they’re, um, French.”

“No unwanted pets that will suck your breath while you sleep.”

“How are you even _human_?”

“No nonconsensual zombification.”

“No republicans.”

Enjolras raises a fair eyebrow that hides under untamed golden hair. “Okay, now how the _fuck_ will I know that?”

“Enjolras, _you_ can smell republicans over another continent.”

He rubs his temple with his thumbs, trying to put his thoughts in an order, but it’s not really something he can hide. “I wish you were coming with me.”

Combeferre grins softly behind his glasses. “You hardly need us.”

“Yes but this is work that concerns the entirety of our group…”

“Now, let’s be honest, Enjo. You’re not going there for work.” Enjolras opens his mouth to protest but Courfeyrac holds up a hand. “This is _your_ trip. You’ve been fanboying over France for a thousand years. Kids were crying over Mufasa’s death and you were crying over the Dreyfus affair. We all dreamt of being Mulan while you showed up to a Halloween party dressed as tiny Saint Just.”

“We didn’t _all_ want to be Mulan, Courf…”

“Combeferre.”

“Okay, maybe we did.”

“You know history maps with the Faubourgs better than you know our underground stations.”

“If you actually liked their cheeses I would be convinced you were born in the wrong country.”

Enjolras grimaces. “Their cheeses suck.”

“It’s okay baby, you’re just overdosed on Haribo, so no gourmet opinions from you.”

“In any case,” Combeferre takes off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. “You must relax and actually _enjoy_ it. You might be going there for work but some pleasure every now and then won’t kill you, you know.”

“You make it all sound so dramatic…” Enjolras grimaces, and Courfeyrac has had enough. “I’m going there strictly for work, I wouldn’t just give money away to travel for pleasure.”

“You’d have the right, you know, no need to apologize to _us_.”

“You’ve been saving up for years, this is literally your only luxury, I mean you live like a monk! Just go sulk at the Pyramid of the Louvre and swoon over revolutionary canons that killed people and, I don’t know, nerd over macarons, and then return here to mope for weeks. Young man,” Courfeyrac grabs his friend’s arm and alright, this _is_ getting somewhat dramatic. “This is your dream!” Emphatic pause. “Besides we’ve said that already, we’ll all go live there one day. _La ville d’amour,_ brie and pears, you know, abolition of _confit_ while fighting for the _canards’_ rights…”

“All that history and the chocolate…” Combeferre sighs dreamily, before returning back to his serious, bespectacled self and clearing his throat. “Now, should we see who responded to your application?”

Enjolras feels a bit shaky and uncomfortable. With all the studying and the activist work he’d been restlessly organizing, he hadn’t had the time to think about his trip just yet, to realize where he’s actually going, to finally accept the fact that he might have a dream, one suspiciously close to that of Rapunzel’s.

His best friends have known him ever since he remembers himself, and they couldn’t be anything less than true. For some reason still unknown to him, he idealizes Paris, has dreamt of living there, has mused on a vague, imaginary liberty, and now that it’s actually happening, he can hardly control his excitement.

“Not as many responses as I’d expected, considering I’d put that photo of you where you look like a Burberry model.”

“Hey, can you stop talking about me like I’m a piece of meat?”

“Though there’s still Clementine from the Marais, who looks rather eager! And look, she’s hot too!”

“Not. Interested.” Enjolras pouts.

“Of course Enjo, you’re gay.”

“I never said I was monosexual, I said I wasn’t fucking _interested_ in paying for an apartment with _sex_!”

“Behave, boys, and look at this response.” Combeferre points at the screen, a little message on top of it flashing welcomingly, making something jump in the pit of Enjolras’ stomach. He’s sleep deprived and overly caffeinated, and he can’t really remember which apartment that was. In his fury he applied to a dozen or so, those that looked cheaper and complete, at least with a roof and door. He didn’t ask for much, he didn’t dream of neoclassical bourgeois apartments in the Champs Elysees (he actually dreamt of setting those on fire). He just wanted a place to work and sleep, considering that he wasn’t much of a tourist who’d walk around eating crème brulée _la plupart du jour_.

“Does my radar detect a hot piece of ass?” Courfeyrac’s voice comes out strangled as he clutches on Combeferre’s arm. “Ferre, my radar does indeed detect a hot piece of ass!”

“Not conventionally, no,” Combeferre replies formally, while taking a good look on the screen himself. Right now Enjolras thoroughly wishes he could punch his childhood friends in the face, because this is enough. This has most definitely crossed a line, and ceased to be funny since 1832. “But don’t let societal beauty norms get in your way.”

“Stop, both of you,” Enjolras huffs, grabbing the laptop and settling it on his knees. His fingers move quickly over the screen, browsing the apartment and not giving two shits about the tiny picture next to the user’s name. It’s not one of the best he’d stumbled through, but it’s relatively cheap and looks habitable. He mentally checks the absence of any problems concerning the Lilliputian size of the room, considering that he won’t be sharing it with the owner, and that he never was one for spacious homes, and peers through the pictures.

The cleanliness is probably the only thing that concerns him, and from the pictures he can at least state safely the absence of rodents. There’s a tiny bedroom that reminds him of Feuilly’s studio, all artsy and messy, and an even tinier old bathroom with mosaic floors. The kitchen looks enough for brewing coffee, which is more or less all he will need, and the best thing that can stir his faith in this apartment, is the view from the window. A tiny balcony with half-dead plants, definitely not done enough justice on the blurry picture, facing a sea of Parisian rooftops, and in the distance, a stupid, cliché streak of the Eiffel Tower’s butt. It’s pretentious, and decadent, and slightly pathetic, and Enjolras can picture himself living there.

“Seems decent enough, ugh?” he murmurs in a neutral voice, trying to conceal his pounding excitement.

“See what the guy’s sent you, first,” Combeferre instructs wisely.

Yeah. Maybe that’s going to be a problem. The guy.

Why can’t Enjolras just have nice things? _Easily?_ Smoothly? Like, he’s actually paying for this room. Why does the only free apartment have to be owned by a sarcastic dick that _hits_ on him without even knowing him?

“He calls me Apollo,” Enjolras growls. “He’s never seen me and he thinks we’re already on nickname base!”

“Enjo…”

“Honestly, this probably is against the site’s guidelines?”

“He’s pretty helpful and explanatory about his apartment’s facilities, though.”

“His reply is anything but professional.”

“He doesn’t _have_ to be professional!”

“Oh, so he doesn’t have to be kind and respectful either!” Enjolras snaps.

“Just throw him _un coup d’oeil_ first, for mine own sake, Enjolras!”

Oh yes, absolutely. The whole stoner artsy ensemble? He’s got it right. His wild hair looks unwashed and his eyes cold and he’s got paint on his fucking face and that self-conceited little smile that doesn’t quite reach them…

“Yeah. Okay. He looks like a proper asshole,” Enjolras scowls.

“Enjolras, you just need some cheap place to stay,” Combeferre notices calmly. “You don’t have to marry him.”

Enjolras turns to look at Combeferre’s collected expression, then back at Courfeyrac’s flushed excitement, and finally at his computer.

Taking a deep breath, he brings his finger to click Reply.

*

**[From R: Today, 13:36] rulez: no real porn, no pissing in my paint, no republicans**

Enjolras scrunches up his nose. This really isn’t making him comfortable, plus their conversation involves much more personal contact than he’d settled for. He doesn’t know if he likes the guy or hates him, what he _does_ know is that he’s exactly the type he’d never want to be friends with.

**[From Enjolras: Today, 13:41] I can assure you that you shouldn’t worry about the republican problem.**

**[From R: Today, 13:44] no marble deliverers of justice either**

**[From Enjolras: Today, 13:45] …Excuse me?**

**[From R: Today, 13:47] idk man, if ur an anarchist w/a masterplan to bomb my apartment while listening to chemical romance…**

**[From R: Today, 13:47] not ok**

Enjolras has to try hard not to resist the actual fucking temptation.

 **[From Enjolras: Today, 13:48]** **You do realize how generalizing and offensive that sounds.**

**[From R: Today, 13:49] ok apollo calm your tits**

**[From Enjolras: Today, 13:50] Can you keep sexist slurs out of this conversation?**

**[From R: Today, 13:51] ur getting predictable**

**[From Enjolras: Today, 13:53] Should I assume you’re drunk?**

**[From R: Today, 13:53] no shit, am i?**

**[From R: Today, 13:56] so. will u get the room?**

**[From Enjolras: Today, 13:58] The entirety of my values tell me not to.**

**[From R: Today, 13:59] …but u have no other choice**

**[From Enjolras: Today, 13:59] Unfortunately not.**

**[From R: Today, 14:00] how many french non-english speaking owners did u scare today, apollo?**

**[From Enjolras: Today, 14:02] Am I scaring you?**

**_Airbnb user R is typing…_ **

**_Airbnb user R is typing…_ **

**[From Enjolras: Today, 14:13] ??**

**[From R: Today, 14:17] bring ur own toothbrush, princess**

*

“He hasn’t replied about the Paypal issue in what seems like two days. I bet he’s passed out shitfaced somewhere in Clichy, I don’t fucking know!”

“Don’t f’row Fre’ch _lieu_ names in co’versations with mere mo’tals.”Courfeyrac grabs his navy pea coat at the probable price of which Enjolras flinches, a granola bar still between his teeth. “Ew. How do you eat these things. Also don’t throw my coat that look,” he turns around, the coat swishing dramatically around his waist. “There was a blowout. Huge bargain.”

“He just upsets me so much!” Enjolras presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. “He’s rude and unprofessional and I bet his political views are cynical and _shit_ , and…”

“May I ask,” Combeferre breaks the half of the granola bar that’s hanging from Courfeyrac’s mouth, resulting in muffled protestations, before proceeding to brew his hourly dose of hot chocolate. Courfeyrac stays in the kitchen to watch the rest of the argument, despite his complaints about being late in a class he never actually attends – and always succeeds in. “How on earth can you know about your potential landlord’s political views?”

“He tries to make a conversation instead of arranging our exchange all the fucking time!” Enjolras complains, banging his coffee mug on the kitchen table a bit too harsh. “I just… I don’t know, I think I _hate_ him!”

“You can’t hate someone you’ve hardly met,” Combeferre states, matter of factly.

“I have to go now, my ducklings,” Courfeyrac chants cheerfully. “Too bad I won’t see you opening that message on your phone!” And with a sinister smirk, Enjolras’ best friend disappears, bringing his attention to the buzzing on the screen of his mobile.

“Shouldn’t you get this?” Combeferre asks calmly, and Enjolras seriously wonders about reconsidering his choices in friends.

**[From R: Today, 8:48] rousseau is overrated**

**[From R: Today, 8:50] my house my rulez**

*

Airports are a strange place. Enjolras wonders if they’re really a place, after all. It’s closer to a passage, between forwards and backwards, here and there, yesterday and tomorrow though, while you’re up there, there’s no time. But Enjolras’ feet are still on solid, shiny ground, light is peering through the windows, mechanic voices are heard through the megaphones, and Enjolras thinks he’ll explode.

For once, he’s not thinking of the future. Not the one that’s lying in the distance, at least.

The only future that matters now is the seconds that follow, on which he’s grasping until he gets on the plane. And then it’ll just happen, then he doesn’t want to think anymore. He just wants it to happen.

Enjolras is anxious and, unfortunately, there’s nothing new about it. Only for once, he doesn’t wish it to go away. It is a different kind of anxiety, of the sort that makes his heart pound on his throat with anticipation. His stomach protests in heresy, a hollow that feels like a puffy, jumpy cloud, like those he’ll be flying through soon enough.

“I’ve brought bagels,” Combeferre unwraps a paper bag and hands them their packets, only Enjolras can’t really swallow much down right now. “You alright?” he asks cautiously.

“Yeah,” he attempts to take a bite of his bagel, unwelcome to his knotted throat. “It’s just…” his voice comes out choked. “I’m, uh… going to Paris?”

“You are,” Courfeyrac sighs merrily. “And I really, _really_ hate you.”

Combeferre takes a look at his watch, fidgeting with his turtleneck and clearing his throat like every time he’s feeling awkward. “I think you should check in.”

Enjolras’ clammy fingers wrap around the handle of his red suitcase.

“Call us on Skype when you reach Charles de Gaulle.”

“Let us know that everything’s alright.”

“That you haven’t been eaten by animated gargoyles or something.”

“Courf, you know how I feel about that movie…”

“Nonsense, you always sing long Esmeralda’s bit.”

“Try not to demolish the padlock bridge.”

“Or, I don’t know, educate Parisians on the rights of the descendants of Napoleon’s ponies.”

“And _please,_ for the love of everything that’s sacred…” If Enjolras had a dollar for every dramatic pause he’d probably solved the problem of world famine.

“…Try not to kill the guy.”

He feels a smile cracking on his lips. “No promises.” His voice muffles as Courfeyrac pulls him in a smothering hug. “Let me know about everything that happens…”

“We will.”

“Keep up with the work, and try to finish the negotiations about the protest…”

“Enjolras…”

“And about the non-binary restrooms petition…”

“ENJOLRAS!”

“O-kay, _okay,_ ” he murmurs in annoyed defeat. “I get it. I’ll go have fun. You know, spend money in capitalist chain souvenir shops that profit from bourgeois impressionists’ art, live the _Moveable Feast_ the way the misogynist Hemingway ordains us to, pay from my student loan money for chocolate and, I don’t know, go to the Louvre to pay a euro to piss in their pretentious toilets.”

“Rousseau was a misogynist too.”

“Besides, _you_ ’re the one who decided to become patriotic for a country that isn’t even yours.”

“Okay, enough.” Combeferre has to practically drag Enjolras out of Courfeyrac’s grip, to pull him for a rather egoistic hug. Enjolras can feel him smile faintly against his cheek.  He smells reassuringly, of chocolate and soap and old books, and for a moment there Enjolras is somewhat scared, not of overthrowing a government or of standing up to the shitty professor that can never let him pass the class, but of going there all alone, to the place of his dreams, yet without the friends who accompanied him through his childhood and beyond.

Combeferre’s dark hand lingers on his arm. “Relax,” he says without even needing an obvious sign of frustration to know. “And everything’s going to be _vraiment extraordinaire_.”

Enjolras grimaces. He’ll never deny his jealousy of Combeferre’s impeccable talent in languages, even though both of them experience a slight complication when it comes to the spoken argot, which Courfeyrac with his hideous pronunciation always manages to master.

“Thank you,” he breathes to his friends. _For helping me with this trip. For not hating me about it._

_For letting me be in this on my own._

_For keeping this a thing between Paris and himself._

“I’m gonna miss you, you incorrigibly fearsome kitten!” Courfeyrac moans, throwing his arms around him again, and Enjolras’ insides fill with warmth, because they weren’t his brothers in birth, but they would be on the ground whenever he asked them to. They’ve been there in everything, since they were kids, swearing they knew the future and yes, their words would take them half way around the world.

_But they never left this town._

He’s left them behind and, honestly, he can’t remember feeling equal separation anxiety from his mother when he left home for college. Actually, quite the opposite. Yet still, something inside him jumps and it’s like he’s walking on thin air, and not in a row of Duty Free shops. He takes off his shoes and belt in the security check with a goofy smile, not only says nothing about generalization of terrorism when they ask him to empty his pockets, but he’s actually so kind he’d scare Joly about having a fever, and he even puts his phone on Flight Mode when he sits in the airplane. Courfeyrac’s “Paris mon amour ;)” playlist is utterly ridiculous. Enjolras rolls his eyes at the Aristocats and the Can-Can, feels like home with Bastille (though he has absolutely no idea what they have to do in Paris), and he eventually settles in listening what sounds suspiciously like Stromae, but he isn’t going to question it because, for the first time in his life, the stern, charming yet terrible revolutionary, feels rather high. High in the sky, away from the ground the tiny people and their houses, the sheets swaying on old clotheslines, captured ghosts in what should always welcome it as home but it’s a paradox, it’s what he’s leaving behind.

He’s listening to the watery flow of the piano notes in Le Demarche, feeling his spirit uplifted. He remembers arguing, in defense of the simplicity of Tiersen’s compositions with a smug remainder of Combeferre’s elitist musician adolescence, and he shrugs with a dismissive smile. Fucked if he knows anything about art, but if those three or four notes aren’t it, then he doesn’t know what it is.

The puffy clouds that remind him of _barbe-à-papa,_ his heart racing against his ribcage, swelling with the masochistic familiarity of that nightmare that danced beneath the curtains of his eyelids.  He’s been there before only he really hasn’t, there’s fire and flashes and dark, the warmth of a hand pressed against his own, he’s lived there for a lifetime, maybe two but he’d never touched _this_ before, the obscure, childish side of his idealistic self, that was actually full of warm sunshines flitered through glimmering river waters, and flashing city lights that waltzed their way through history.

Enjolras takes a deep breath, his blue eyes out of the foggy window, flying amongst the clouds. For that tiny fragment of an eternity, everything feels fine. Even his roommate _._

_He’s going home._

*

First thing he does when he gets off on Charles de Gaulle, is turn on his phone. An overly excited snap from Courfeyrac is waiting, wondering if he’s met the love of his life in the airplane just yet. Enjolras can’t help but smile and replay it, just for the sake of seeing his friend’s face together with a peek of Combeferre’s glasses again. The bittersweet homesickness, however, lasts no more than a minute, since he gets lost in the enormous airport looking for the baggage claim, and then he rushes to get into the RER train. He doesn’t have time to get all excited just yet, a lump is sitting in his throat and his heart has settled in a flight pace that can’t possibly be healthy. He stands crammed up in the corner of the wagon together with his suitcase, his messenger bag pressed tightly against his body, his eyes wandering outside the foggy windows. It’s not Paris just yet, just green and grey houses pressed irregularly one next to the other. He tries to realize what’s going on, to let it sink in properly because _he’s in Paris he’s just out of it_ and that’s the Notre Dame peeking over the rooftops and he can’t breathe.

He changes trains on Chatêlet-Les Halles, his pulse pounding excitedly as he replies the pages of Zola’s _Le Ventre de Paris,_ but he’s only met with an endless greasy underground station, that frustrates him and makes him uncomfortable. There’s so many people, people he’d dreamt to meet and watch and love, but there is no time to stop and let them in because he’s walking around for what feels like hours, trying to ask for directions but always somehow messing up. Sweat is making his jumper stick on his body and his cheeks to flush and his feet are already sore. He mentally curses the suitcase he has to carry. For fuck’s sake, what did Courfeyrac put in this? He never imagined that fashion would weigh so heavy…

He’s out on the street and everything happens quicker than he’d ever anticipated. People are running next to him, in all different directions. It’s not the best neighbourhood. The buildings around him are dirty and painted with graffiti, not that he minds at all, it’s just, it’s all so new to him. There’s cobblestone beneath his feet, soaked rusty leaves scattered in a carpet over the pavement. He’d dreamt his arrival somewhat different, maybe with the spirit of Sartre expecting him outside the metro station, together with Desmoulins and Napoleon’s horrid elephant, or at least stopping in a revolutionary café for his coffee, but it’s raining and he’s soaked and disgusting and he _really_ needs to get home before his laptop gets acquainted with floating frogs inside his bag. His excitement has been washed away with the rain that pours over him, plastering his hair miserably on his head and causing him to shudder in his red pea coat. He checks the address again on his phone and seeks help in one of the twelve bookcases in the quarter. It’s warm in there, and breathtaking. He can’t help but browse through the ancient, dusty tomes and rare titles. The first chance to brush up on his French first ties his tongue and results in making him all bouncy with excitement, but then he remembers he needs to get out.

He’d never thought there would be so many flower shops in a neighborhood, even one that works as a library, and one that's part hair salon. It’s almost as if people here don’t need supermarkets or banks, just flowers and books. It’s not something that would otherwise make him feel anything but neutral, but it’s so peculiar a thing, to see all those people take their plants and flowers inside to protect them from the rain, people who might have been his neighbours, his colleagues, his friends…

The name of the street snaps him out of his thoughts, and he has found the building. It’s relatively old and the hall smells of spicy food and smoke. He takes a deep breath, trying in vain to wipe his dripping hair on the sleeve of his sweater pressing his frozen gloveless finger on the bell.

He can hear shuffling from inside, the thumping of bare feet on wood and the occasional stumbling, together with the muffled buzz of weird indie rock music. Eventually the door opens, and he’s faced with eyes that could pale the sky.

Okay, let’s rewind and rephrase this. Enjolras is jetlagged and slightly taken aback, but he is faced with his landlord, and a streak of the apartment he’s paid to stay for a good ten days. And it’s just an insignificant fact of insignificant importance that the landlord’s eyes happen to be an insignificant shade of blue. Just. Stating the fact. Like he would casually state that the apartment is on the fifth fucking floor. Or that he noticed a massager on the third one, even though he’d never consider the possibility of a massage. It’s possibly the most awkward, long moment of his life that feels like a couple of eternities shoved together because _holy frick is this strange_. The man seems stuck, if not gaping, and Enjolras is terribly frustrated. He knows he’s dripping on the doormat but it _was_ raining, it wasn’t as if he could do anything but follow R’s directions and walk to the building, besides he’s willing to do his own housework and clean after himself so why is he staring at him like that with those disturbing icy eyes of his?

“Uh… hi,” he attempts to find a free hand and offer it, but R doesn’t seem found.

“How can I help? Was the music loud?” he asks in English, but with a prominent accent on the _th_ and the _ou_. Enjolras can’t help but thank his luck that they will at least be able to communicate.

Or will they.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re not…” the man starts in that hoarse, deep voice of his, and before Enjolras can scowl for the breath of alcohol he feels in the air, R’s eyes grow wide open. “ _Merde._ ” he murmurs, probably to himself, and Enjolras is having enough of this.

“I’m Enjolras?” he provides impatiently. He’s already shivering from the cold and he feels absolutely filthy from the trip, not to mention how concerned this whole apartment thing is making him. The guy is drunk, possibly stoned too, barefoot and half-shirtless with a pencil on his ear and stains of paint on his wild dark curls, and Enjolras doesn’t feel entirely too secure with this, no matter what the website’s guidelines were all about. “Keeping your mailbox amused since the beginning of the month?”

It seems to be the vain attempt to sarcasm that stirs R back to his senses, as a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes spreads over his thin lips, and he steps back. “Bien _sûr,_ Apollo,” he mutters, accenting the last syllable. If Enjolras wasn’t so sure that he’s pissed off, he honestly doesn’t know how he’d feel about it. “Come in. I didn’t think you'd be the guy in the photo.”

“Well, of course I was the guy in the photo,” Enjolras mumbles noncommittally. “Who else would it be?”

“J’sais pas, a fuckin model or something…”

Enjolras turns abruptly to look at the man before carrying his luggage inside. He feels his cheeks flushing uncomfortably as worry prickles beneath his skin. Is this the man he’s supposed to live with? Is this the man he's supposed to be _paying_? “What?”

“Nothing,” R steps into the apartment and shuts the door behind him. “I’m Grantaire,” he says, making no movement to shake his hand or turn off the loud music. “Not that you asked…” Enjolras tries hard not to grimace as the pun in his landlord’s name eventually settles down in his mind, filling him with mixed emotions he didn’t quite expect. “ _Bienvenue_ to my humble abode,” the man gestures theatrically around the room. “I’d show you around but there’s nothing to, uh, show?”

Enjolras feels his lips pressing so hard together that his teeth dig into them. “Maybe my room?” he supplies helpfully, wondering for how long this surreal struggle will last.

“Your room... Sure,” Grantaire smirks sarcastically, making no more than a couple of steps towards the door and pushing it open. “Make yourself comfortable.”

It’s a tiny place, corresponding more or less to the picture on the website. A single bed crammed up against the wall, records and old books piled over the wooden floor, a couple of frayed cushions and band posters that smell oddly enough of Grantaire’s adolescence. Next to the window a single Bauhaus imitation chair painted neon pink, where Enjolras drops his sac-voyage.

“There’s the kitchen, living room, whatever room,” he follows Grantaire’s lazy voice outside, “here’s the bathroom – hope you’re not afraid of _araignées_?”

“Aray-what?”

“Um… spiders.”

Enjolras makes a considerable effort to maintain his composure. Only his eyes narrow dangerously and he barely manages not to shudder. “Are you seriously asking me this question?” he asks calmly.

“What can I do,” Grantaire shrugs his shoulders. “My plumbing system is a meeting point.” They make a step out of the bathroom, and he points at a shut door. “And that’s my room,” he says, raising a mysterious eyebrow. “Outta bounds.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras clears his throat, somewhat awkwardly, standing in front of his room and looking forward to retreating in its privacy. “For having me over.”

“It’s not like you’re not paying.” Grantaire shrugs his shoulders, causing his open shirt to stretch over them and Enjolras needs to look away because _all those muscles_ and it’s not just muscles, Grantaire is not the person you’d consider slim or hairless, and Enjolras tries not to gulp because _excuse you where is the air in this fucking place…_

Apparently Grantaire doesn’t intend to keep such a polite distance for the rest of his staying there.

“T’veux boire un verre?”

Enjolras is unpacking, placing Combeferre-neatly-folded clothes on the bed, the only empty space in his bedroom. “I don’t drink,” he murmurs on the bouts of irritation, as Grantaire peers into the room. “Of course,” he smirks, unfolding a cardigan and his Délacroix leggings to raise them with his hands. “No. Don’t tell me you’re _seriously_ wearing this shit.”

Enjolras grabs his leggings defensively, feeling his cheeks prickling red. “What if I am?” he growls. “Look at your business.”

“So. You’re a student, right?” Grantaire walks round the bed, playing with a stray pug sock or even Combeferre’s turtleneck that smells of chocolate and Combeferre _put it down!_

“Yeah,” Enjolras replies absently, feeling his patience dissolve and cursing as he trips on a stray boot and hits his knee on the bed.

“Et aussi tres riche,” Grantaire hums pleasantly, that crooked smile of his never lighting his gaze.

“What did you say?” Enjolras narrows his eyes dangerously.

“Nothing, just _French_ ,” Grantaire smiles sinisterly before throwing himself over the bed Enjolras is supposed to sleep in and Grantaire reeks of smoke and alcohol and Enjolras is pissed because _fuck you_ that’s why.

“Listen,” he takes a deep breath, trying to tame his nerves. “I’m here on business, okay?”

“Oh?”

“Oh.”

“And may I ask what kind of business that is?”

“You may not.” Enjolras tactfully shoves his tricolor underwear in the cupboard because he doesn’t want to think what will happen if Grantaire sees it. “It has to do with my activism.”

“I knew it,” Grantaire cackles softly. “Saving the world, uh? Shoving it to The Man, down with that shit, and all?”

Enjolras decides it's time to stop pretending he’s folding clothes, so he raises his head, his pulse pounding furiously in his meninges. “You know everything, don’t you?”

“I don’t know, _Ange_ ,” Grantaire sits up on the bed and fixes those cold eyes of his on Enjolras. “You tell me.”

“What’s that, another nickname?”

“It’s French…”

“I know what it is!” Enjolras snaps, throwing his clothes angrily on the bed only to realize that his If Found Return To Combeferre t-shirt Courfeyrac made them in Christmas is visible.

“Combeferre’s your _p’tit ami_ , eh?”

“Again, none of your business,” Enjolras hisses.

“Okay, okay,” Grantaire stands up, looking theatrically defeated. “So how was your trip?”

“It was,” Enjolras pauses, shutting his eyes tightly before opening them again, trying to avoid Grantaire’s blue gaze and continuing to shit up Combeferre’s folding. “Like a trip.”

“Not feeling really chatty, are we?”

“Our contract said _nothing_ about chatting!” Enjolras shouts, left against the wall, breathing heavily.

“Woah,” Grantaire murmurs under his breath. “Well excuse you then, I’ll be in my room, letting you be fucking antisocial on your own.”

“Fucking _merci_!” Enjolras huffs, causing Grantaire to stop at the door and turn around again.

“You’ve already regretted this, haven’t you?” he asks and it’s strange, softened. It’s almost as if dark circles have appeared beneath Grantaire’s eyes, or maybe Enjolras just hadn’t noticed them before.

“Well, you have a thing of phrasing what I have in my mind,” Enjolras murmurs, his voice oddly quiet. Maybe he’s regretted this, yes maybe he’s fucking _regretted_ this because look at that guy, he’s drunk and stinks and his house is probably full of spiders and he’s sarcastic and annoying and he so obviously _hates_ Enjolras for a reason he can’t quite understand and Enjolras can’t stay here because he’s regretted this –

_he hasn’t_

“This is your house too now, kid,” Grantaire says and, as much as Enjolras would like to hate him even more for that, there’s something croaky in his soft voice that causes his insides to clench tightly. “You can jerk off as much as you want. Eat my Nutella. Well, not all of it. You can have a shower, you know.”

Silence falls. Enjolras considers a shower. Enjolras is _obsessed_ with showers. Enjolras can’t go on without his twenty minute ritual that makes Feuilly’s ecological side cringe, water burning on his tensed muscles and releasing all the anxiety of the day. Enjolras feels disgusting, all wet and sticky from the rain and the sweat and the trip.

Enjolras can’t have a shower. Not now, not here.

“I, uh,” he clears his throat. “I’m okay. I’m… clean.”

Enjolras wonders briefly if uncomfortable silences have ever killed people because if he dies before the Death of Capitalism then it will be a total pity.

“Well,” Grantaire stares blankly. “Good to know, Apollo.”

The door shuts behind him and Enjolras falls flat into his bed, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes until the room around him becomes a grey kaleidoscope.

Grantaire’s music is muffled through the shut door as Enjolras lies on his back in the dimly lit room. Paris is glowing outside his window, rooftops slowly falling asleep under the filtred orange hues through the night clouds. He can hear his heart in his head as he shuts his eyes, trying to harmonize his body in this new environment, to align his senses with the scent of exotic candles and alcohol fumes, to decide if he hates it or not. His bed is soft and the pillows smell strange.

                     _smell of Grantaire_

It's Sinnead O'Connor, coming through the shut door. He's always loved that song, even though he'd hardly ever related with the lyrics. There are songs he doesn't know, or maybe he's too tired to remember, and then he recognizes the Smiths. He faintly tries to imagine Grantaire sitting in his room, doing whatever it is he does in his life, he wonders if there's history behind the music that lulls him. His body's wrapped around the pillows, his limbs tangled between the patchwork duvet and his unfolded clothes. The apartment smells faintly of paint and old books. His eyes slide shut but he can still see the night sky beneath his eyelids.

Enjolras falls asleep in Paris.


	2. If you get lost you can always be found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You’re naïve, sweetheart.” Grantaire says sarcastically, grabbing a hoodie that was tossed on the table and pulling it over his head. Suddenly Enjolras wants to punch that stupid smug smile off his face but he doesn’t know how. “You’ve come to Paris where we’re rotten and full of shit and there’s more people sleeping on the streets than in beds and there is racism and classism and sexism and water costs three fucking euros. Sorry if you we ruined your dream, but this is real life and my rent for this shithole costs more than I’d value life itself.”_
> 
>  
> 
> Jehan’s eyes narrow dangerously with what looks oddly enough like self-satisfaction and Enjolras fails to understand. “There’s a swell coffee shop, just around the corner!” Dramatic pause, Courfeyrac that’s for you. “Très mignon, c'est Le Café Musain.”
> 
> “Oh,” Enjolras mutters, quite taken aback, tidying his books and notes in his messenger bag. “Um, thanks.”
> 
>  
> 
> _This isn't happening..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised there was going to be more, so here's more. I know I'm more late than my period (yes, this is self imposed), but I have an excuse. Not only is everything hectic and I'm constantly on the verge of tears, but the trip is also too fairytale like to be true, and every memory has started fading away in a terrifying manner, so it's hard for me to write for what I love the most. Which is Paris. Among other things. I'm Enjolras in this story, I don't know if you can tell, but the things is I'm obliged to conform to my everyday routine here, and it's started getting more and more distant, and then I sit down and watch the video and see the photos and I'm struck to the bone in a moment of breathless delight because, did I live that? Is that a thing that happens in real life? So yeah, that's why it's taken me so long. It might not be a good enough chapter, even though I hope you'll enjoy it, but nevertheless it was hard to write.  
> Still I was on no account expecting such a positive reaction to this story. It was a mostly personal fic, and really cliché and similar to everything else I've written, so I didn't expect such lovely comments as those you left for me. I've been surprised but in a way that couldn't be better, so thank you soooooo much, and I promise I'll do my best to update soon enough! I want to write all the Christmas stuff too but ugh. WHY did I take 9 classes?  
> At this point I want to shout out for the wonderful person that is [epicnessatitsbest](http://epicnessatitsbest.tumblr.com/), who is from Canada and just as epic as her name suggests :3 She helps so much with the translations, actually all credit is on her, so thank you, you're amazing! <3 (if you see something that seems wrong, it's probably because I translated it, not her).  
> Anyway, here's a kind of a filler chapter, puppies and sex coming in the future, brace yourselves for yet another coffee shop thing, yada yada.  
> Title is from the song Home by Phillip Phillips.  
> Thank you so much for reading! Opinions and constructive criticism are always more than welcome.

He wakes up more well-rested than he’s felt in years, which is strange considering that he can never sleep in beds other than his own. It takes a while to figure out where he is and what exactly is happening, but then it somehow jolts into his chest, and he throws himself out of bed. The window is small and the curtains fraying and stained, but when he pulls them aside he sees Paris, and it’s not just rooftops, not just the Eiffel Tower (which he doesn’t know why his mind keeps mentioning since he never bore any excitement for the monument. No, it’s something different n the color of the sky altogether, which is grey, precisely the same shade he’s been used to, but maybe it’s the filtering of the light or the fluttering between his ribs, and Enjolras is so full he’s going to explode like a pillow with feathers spread all over Paris.

He takes a shower empty of thoughts, after what feels like two thirds of a forever. He doesn’t replay a list of what he has to do during the day, he doesn’t repeat information to be able to contradict every uneducated person he meets in the bus, he doesn’t   consider mechanically the schedule of his evening and his night and everything that comes in the sleepless, hazy hours after that. He hums instead, _hums_ of all things, maybe it is the Marseillaise or maybe it isn’t, he isn’t completely aware of it in first place, he’s only aware of the pattering of the water on the cold mosaic piles beneath his feet which for once is covering the noise of the anxious tyres in his brain.

The flat is empty and oddly quiet. He realizes he hasn’t seen it _sans musique,_ and he hasn’t seen it yet n the morning. It’s not what he’d call full of light, or tidy, or even completely clean, but it’s strangely cozy and there’s coffee in the kitchen which is a good thing.

There are crepes too, neatly piled on a plate, contrasting heavily with the mess of jam and crumbs and eggshells scattered around the table. He feels uncharacteristically hungry but he doesn’t know if they’re for him. He hesitantly looks around and thinks of Grantaire. The man dislikes him, does his best to make it clear. Why on Earth would he have him breakfast, and also how can he be sure it’s _safe_? He throws them another thoughtful glance before sitting down and massacring them. He’s so oddly touched when his stomach is full of fruity and sugary goodness that he even makes an attempt to wash the dishes to pay Grantaire back, and bundles up before finally heading outside.

It’s almost as if he’s already programmed of functioning in that city. He immediately finds the metro and checks the changes he must do on the App on his phone. He scowls at the price of the tickets but nevertheless buys two packs, and waits on the platform with the concert posters and the greasy walls, his anticipation growing with every passing minute. While he’s in the metro he wonders if all those people crammed up around him would think him crazy that he found them so impeccably lucky to live in this city, to even be born there and maybe go to the Sorbonne and be able to change this place and work for it, getting involved and fighting against what’s corrupted and in favor of everyone who needs it. He wonders if they understand their privilege or if they simply pass it by as a given and then Enjolras sees the first homeless.

It’s a man who could be fifty or eighty. His hair is white and greasy, his eyes dark and foggy and they capture him. It’s freezing outside, even for October, and Enjolras can only be thankful for the woolen scarf Combeferre got him around his neck. His pea coat is insufficient, but the only thing the man has is a ratty blanket and his fingerless gloves. Enjolras’ stomach clenches tightly. He’s always afraid to cross the limit and make someone uncomfortable. To that man he gives money and later, when he finds someone sleeping, a family with kids, a woman his age with her dog, another man, he leaves them even more money and food, hoping no one will steal it until they wake. Something is biling up his throat for the rest of the day, because he should had expected that even when romanticizing Paris, but this isn’t what he had in his mind, not even close.

 However, uncharacteristic as it may be, he manages to distract himself, even without wanting it, when he sees the Seine and bends over the edge to look over the green, filthy waters just across the Conciergerie, the pretentious, extravagant _bateaux mouches_ but also the cute ones with the roof gardens. He wishes he wouldn’t be ready to die of excitement because it really _must_ be quite pathetic, but there’s actually nothing he can do to prevent himself from internally screaming. He walks across the river with his hands shoved in his pockets to prevent them from freezing, but not for long. He needs to feel it with all of his senses, smell the cold air and the occasional spice from a coffee shop or a fast food restaurant, hear the voices and the steps of the people walking on the pavement and touch it all, the cement walls of the bridges, the old cellophane maps at the booquinistes (he buys a poster with moths for Combeferre) and there’s the practical need of taking pictures with his phone every 1.0923 second. And then his phone buzzes.

**[From: number] I ran out of crepe shit**

**[From: number] could only find some shitty lemon sauce**

Enjolras almost smiles at the screen.

**[To: number] Thank you so much for making me breakfast, it was delicious.**

**[From: number] idk if u like lemons**

**[From: number] not sour enough 4 u ugh?**

Smile freezes, like his balls already have in the Parisian weather. See? _That_ was why Enjolras shouldn’t have let himself feel so thankful. 

**[To: number] Are you drunk?**

**[From: number] nope**

**[From: number] seulement ivre**

**[From: number] par le soleil**

**[To: Courfeyrac] I hope you’re ready to die a painful death.**

**[From: Courfeyrac] Good morning to you too sunshine B-)**

Seriously, fuck the sun. That goes to both Courfeyrac and Grantaire. Like, there’s no _sun_? Everything’s pale and overcast, and there’s clouds and trees with yellow leaves because it’s autumn in Paris and it’s probably going to rain and Enjolras should be savoring it but instead he’s texting the two people who’ll never know what limits mean: his best friend and his not-so-best quasi-flatmate.

**[From: Courfeyrac] Why wish such horrible fate to the only people who loved you? :-(**

**[From: Courfeyrac] The people who raised you up???/?**

**[To: Courfeyrac] My parents raised me up and all I wish to them is for something to rot in the pool.**

**[From: Courfeyrac] Wwe grew up together in the same crib playing together in the sand comrades in detention and in freedom**

**[To: Courfeyrac] Courf I hated you in kindergarten remember?**

**[From: Courfeyrac] It’s ok Enjo you were an odd kid you hated kittens too**

**[From: Courfeyrac] Also peanut butter and ball pits**

**[To: Courfeyrac] I was ALLERGIC to peanut butter**

**[From: Courfeyrac] Aw I know I’ll never forget you got all red**

**[From: Courfeyrac] You shd be happy isn’t red your favorite color?**

Enjolras heaves a sigh, resting back against the bridge.

**[To: Courfeyrac] Back to the point.**

**[From: Courfeyrac] You wanted to deprive the world from my charm**

**[To: Courfeyrac] Yes, because you sent him my number.**

**[From: Courfeyrac] Him? Who him?**

**[From: Courfeyrac] Omg what are you hiding from me?**

**[From: Courfeyrac] Avec qui as-tu couché ?**

**[To: Courfeyrac] Stop it. R has my number. I didn’t give it to him.**

**[From: Courfeyrac] You live in the same damn house you need to be able to contact each other in case of an emergency I can’t even**

**[From: Courfeyrac] omg you’re ridiculous**

**[To: Courfeyrac] You call calling me a lemon an emergency?**

**[From: Courfeyrac] What**

**[From: Courfeyrac] he called you a**

**[From: Courfeyrac] lemon**

**[From: Courfeyrac] I don’t want to alarm you Enjo**

**[From: Courfeyrac] but ARE you a lemon?**

**[To: Courfeyrac] Courfeyrac.**

**[To: Courfeyrac] I have to go now I’m getting into the Notre Dame.**

**[From: Courfeyrac] WHO IS THE MOSTNER AND WHO IS THE MAAAAAAANNNN**

**[To: Courfeyrac] I’m gonna take that as a rhetorical question**

**[From: number] sing the balls of notre dame**

**[To: Courfeyrac] …**

**[To: Courfeyrac] You know**

**[To: Courfeyrac] You’re still paying for this.**

**[To: Courfeyrac] Also your brogues.**

**[From: Courfeyrac] My brogues say fuck you dearest :)**

**[From: Courfeyrac] And they thought you were FRIENDS!!!1!**

He gets upset over the price of the candles in the Notre Dame and he tries to find who’s in charge for this to lecture him about taking advantage of people’s faith but apparently you can’t find someone willing to hear you in Notre Dame and they try to sell him coins with the Pope’s face on them instead, so he simply walks around, half-pissed half-in awe, admiring the majestic vitro and the way the light is filtered through the colors. It’s somewhat calming and mesmerizing at the same time, how this monument is more than 400 years old, and Enjolras wishes Feuilly would be here to see this.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he's got Combeferre waxing poetic about Shakespeare and Company, and that's probably due to the fact that there is no bigger Shakespeare nerd in existence than Combeferre. The place only has one section in the back of the room dedicated to him, but still Enjolras decides to give his heart to it. He's not the guy to get excited by aesthetics, but he isn't the one to deny reading history in an old brocade armchair with the scent of tattered pages and old ink, seeing the Notre Dame through the foggy window, a girl typing in the machine and another playing the piano in the corner room. He sees tourists crammed up in the small picturesque room under the wall, scribbling spontaneous poetry in all different languages as if they're all possessed by the Muses of the giants. A guilty yet important part of him has somehow tried to distinguish himself from the tourists, as if he's in any way special, or wishes altogether different things from all those people who pretend this is their life for a week. Yet the tourists of this bookstore can't help but reflect his own sentiments, and with a pang of inexplicable, ridiculously possessive jealousy, he realizes he's not alone.

It's the prices of the books, however, that make him frown and decide that the editions he sees are more or less mainstream, so he lingers in the piano room a little longer, texting dear Joly and assuring him he's staying safe from Ebola (however that's supposed to happen). He thinks twice before lecturing him for not caring until the virus spread in Western countries, simply because he knows that darling Joly cared for long before that.

He's walking around St. Michel and the Quartier Latin, suddenly wondering how he hadn't noticed he could get tired before, working mehanically for days because justice didn't have breaks, and eventually collapsing half-dead in bed in one point or another. Now it's the other kind of tired, the full, heavy one, with the sore feet and the rain-soaked hair, where his body aches but his mind is restless. Nevertheless he stops in some little bistro to have something quick, trying to avoid being indebted to Grantaire for cooking him again. He gets out infuriated, mourning the money he's sacrificed for a creme-brûlée (which, for Enjolras, is perfectly decent lunch, thank you very much), and immediately heads home.

It's an abundance of firsts, tiny, insignificant firsts that leap in the pit of his stomach excitedly. The first time he wakes up in Paris, his first rain, his first metro ride back home, his first baby steps into a new life he feels like being reborn into, and it's the first time he's heading back home, and he hesitates to call it that but his mind does all the work involuntarily.

The stairs have him sweaty and panting on the top of the fifth floor, and he makes a mental note to exercise more if he doesn’t want to be chased down by the cops in the next riot.

Grantaire is at home. He can hear Beirut playing before he even unlocks the door, and a rich smell of spices hits him when he enters the apartment. Part of Enjolras wishes to avoid him, but it’s hard to avoid Grantaire when he’s painting in the middle of the living room. 

Well, not exactly. Once again he’s wearing an unbuttoned flannel but that’s more than enough, honestly. Enjolras seriously considers sitting down with Grantaire and reevaluating the ground rules. Maybe after Grantaire buttons his shirt. And cleans his hair and hands of all the colorful paint. No, he didn’t mean it that way. Personal hygiene norms are often constructed by a society that wishes to control the _mode de vie_ of its people, and it was wrong of Enjolras to judge something like that, especially in one’s house, doing one’s work. But the thing is, the no buttons part? It’s really not working, _really not_ …

“How did pretending you’re in a Woody Allen movie go?”

In second thoughts, maybe the whole thing is just not working, period.

“I’m actually pretty pissed?” Enjolras tries to have some good faith and hold on to the conversation. “I… so many things are plain _wrong_.”

Grantaire sets down his paintbrush and slowly wipes his hands in a rag, peering from behind his easel. “Do go on?” he asks with a smug smile that shows he’s clearly amused.

Enjolras shrugs the dripping coat off his shoulders, setting it on a chair, before kicking off his boots. “Everything’s so fucking expensive… full of tourist traps – and there are so many people on the streets…”

“I googled your name, you like, publish all those social justice articles? I’d thought at your level of activist bullshit, you’d have known the numbers of SDFs in this city already.”

“It’s not like I don’t know the facts,” Enjolras hisses, feeling furious for the fact that, for once, he can’t explain the whole thing successfully, not even to himself.

“It’s just that you’d irrationally romanticized this place, isn’t it?” Grantaire shrugs his shoulders and turns the music down.

“I hadn’t _romanticized_ it!” Enjolras protests. “I’m just even more appalled to see in real life that nothing is done to ameliorate the situation.” Grantaire’s words buzz in his head until it hurts, and he feels his face fuming. “Also activism is not _bullshit_!”

“You’re naïve, sweetheart.” Grantaire says sarcastically, grabbing a hoodie that was tossed on the table and pulling it over his head. Suddenly Enjolras wants to punch that stupid smug smile off his face but he doesn’t know how. “You’ve come to Paris where we’re rotten and full of shit and there’s more people sleeping on the streets than in beds and there is racism and classism and sexism and water costs three fucking euros. Sorry if you we ruined your dream, but this is real life and my rent for this shithole costs more than I’d value life itself.”

“And what are you doing to change all that?”

“Let’s swap the question, shall we?”

“At least I’m doing _something_!”

“Oh?”

_“Oh.”_

“What, shouting in the streets, a bit of sightseeing here, a bit of angry blogging there?”

“Are you in a position to judge?”

“I don’t know, Apollo, you tell me, whatever helps you sleeps at night,” Grantaire cackles. “You’re here to liberate Paris, right? From what, exactly? From its own fucking pretentiousness? Do you know what the people _need,_ are you able to give it to them? This isn’t May 68, and even if it was we both know what came after that.”

Enjolras hasn’t felt so riled up since the Straight Pride incident. He’s honestly at loss for words, and that isn’t supposed to happen but, before he’s able to argue back, Grantaire’s tone softens, and he’s balancing himself in a pair of boots that he grabs from the floor. “I know this shitty town better than my ass,” he raises his eyes, “I can show you around.”

“I don’t need showing around by someone who compares his home town to his ass,” Enjolras says but his voice comes out oddly gentle softened.

Grantaire remains balancing in one leg, one boot hanging laces up from his hand. His glance is pale and questioning, and a process that takes place inside his mind seems to finally settle down. “Anyway, I’ve – somewhere to be,” he sighs. “For the sake of fuck, Enjolras, next time eat at home. I don’t care how rich you are, just –” his expression looks almost pained and, for a moment there, Enjolras is about to lose his shit. “There’s food in the kitchen.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras mutters almost sheepishly, immediately pissed off with himself.

He retreats to his room, trying hard not to let a series of incorrigible sounds into his pillow. He doesn’t know what is going so wrong, he doesn’t know what he _did_ wrong or if just everything is on Grantaire. He’s feeling angry because he knows he’ll feel homesick when he leaves, he knows he’d give everything to stay there while some people will just fail to appreciate everything they have and insist on dooming it, and he really wants to hate Grantaire and his despicable opinions but he can’t, something isn’t letting him.

He hears sounds coming from the kitchen, steps outside his room and then a door slamming shut. He stays in bed for a while even though he’s already started feeling stressed out about nothing in particular, and he’d rather be working to change it. He eventually gets up when the lights are shining outside his window, when the sky’s already a misty shade of purple and the Eiffel tower is glimmering in the distance. He remembers Grantaire’s words about pretentiousness, then he remembers the pale of his glance and the dark shade of his skin, bare muscles with splotches of red and blue and green, and everything in between. He tries to avoid eating Grantaire’s food but his stomach is protesting, and nothing has ever smelt more like home than Grantaire’s kitchen at the present point. He sits on the table, feeling groggy without even having fallen asleep, and finally takes up on some work, cherishing every second of having the apartment all on his own. His eyes drift outside the window every now and then, but he’s not distracted.

*

His head pounds and it has a beat. It’s some dizzying, psychedelic song that bursts through Jehan’s laptop and Grantaire’s world is turning around in an orbit.

 _His hands are itching, it’s the paint drying on fingers, but maybe he needs blood on his knuckles and beneath his wrist  and they’re empty because he needs a chisel but only if chisels stop looking like knives because he’s had enough of those and knives don’t do marble – he wonders if hands of marble ever feel empty, if it’s fulfilling to be living in his skin, but then he wants_ – he needs – _to fill his hands, fill them with sunshine and roses bleeding on his lips…_

“Oy, R!”

Bahorel may shout all he wants but Grantaire feels tired, too fucking tired for this and the room is spinning but maybe he’s wasted, he can _taste_ Jehan’s smoke, now what the fuck did Montparnasse bring them?

“Tu ne parles pas, c’est inquiétant,” Musichetta notes unnecessarily.

“Regarde, t’es immobile comme le marbre,” Jehan practically purrs, the smooth bastard. Grantaire will deal with him later.

“Putain, qu’est-ce qui c’est passe?” Eponine growls under her breath. Grantaire simply shrugs his shoulders.

_Oh just, the usual. I’m in love with a Greek marble God that came dripping through my door and now lives with me, and folds his underwear, also did I mention it’s tricolor? And he has a Marseillaise ringtone which makes him a pathetic dork and the way he talks about the people he cares about makes me melt and the way he scrunches up his nose when he realizes I’ll never do it is not ok and there’s only one tiny insignificant problem, that he has an, um –_

_crush on my hometown._

“As-tu besoin d’un verre?” Bahorel hesitates, almost in fear, before deciding. “Tu as besoin d’un verre, mec.”

“Je suis comme Icare, don’t les ailes ont fondu avant qu’il ne puisse baiser le soleil”, he hears himself slurring.

He can hear Jehan’s snickers as Eponine’s gaze burns through him. In this strange new world, his beer continues to make sense.

Grantaire is in some deep shit.

*

He wakes up with his head on his books, and a blanket with a distant scent draped around his body. He finds breakfast waiting for him in the bombarded kitchen (tomato, scrambled eggs, and lots of lots of coffee), but there’s a note to do the laundry in return because Grantaire has a double shift at work today and his clothes reek. Enjolras realizes he has no _idea_ what Grantaire’s work is. He almost manages to figure out how the washing machine works and then he tries not to forget anything purple inside. Grantaire’s clothes tell him a few things: he likes The Smiths more than enough, his sweaters smell of smoke and his jeans are stained with paint. There is a pair of frayed sweatpants he hasn’t seen him wearing yet, and there’s something cozy about them that warms Enjolras’ chest. He hadn’t seen Grantaire as human, not as other than his landlord with the shitty way to view the world, not as the man who wakes up cranky early in the morning to go to work, the man who’s got friends to meet and friends to help and friends to moan at about his boss or anything like that, he hadn’t imagined him fighting with his mother or, he doesn’t know, joking with her. Aside from the drinking smell and the no buttons exhibitionist thing, Grantaire is Terra Incognita, and it’s so very strange.

He takes his coffee outside, in the cloudy, tiny balcony. The washing machine hasn’t finished yet when he hears the sound of keys at the door, and he immediately freaks out because _no one told him what he was supposed to do if someone tried to rob the apartment._

He doesn’t know if robbers are allowed to look like punk pixies that smell of chili and gardenias, cladded in clashing pastels, all piercings and deer necklaces and pink dreadlocks, but Enjolras decides that they can’t have the keys and be a threat, so he drops the broomstick he was holding and exhales.

“You must be Enjolras!” the man says in heavily accentuated English, tidying some books and a bouquet of flowers on the shelf of the living room. “I’m Jehan, Grantaire’s friend,” he offers his hand, shaking Enjolras back into reality. “ _Merde_ , R was right!” he muses mostly to himself, after assessing Enjolras’ appearance for a second. “I came to invite you to lunch, R says you’ve got nothing to eat and Bahorel’s cooked loco moco!”

“Uh, thanks,” Enjolras says, quite taken aback. “I don’t want to be any trouble…”

Jehan raises a menacing eyebrow. “You eat Bahorel’s food or he gets angry, sorry hon, I don’t make the rules. Now,” he jolts around and Enjolras almost jumps up. “I’ve heard you’re a Paris nerd.” Jehan is already in the bathroom, emptying the washing machine and putting everything to dry, and Enjolras follows him in the apartment, almost helpless. “You should see my books, you can borrow everything but if you lose my poets I skin you,” he says in a pleasant voice. “Where have you been yet?”

Enjolras doesn’t need to think for long. “The Notre Dame?”

Jehan turns around slowly, concerns engraved on his face. “Enjolras,” he begins carefully, “do you _know_ where to go?”

Enjolras raises his shoulders uncertainly. “I have some work to finish…”

“Okay, yeah, I don’t have classes today, and you need to see Paris,” Jehan nods decidedly. “We’re going sightseeing.”

Jehan is a wonderful, bright young person, and Enjolras finds himself almost sad that they’re not friends or roommates. His English is excellent and throughout the day he learns that Jehan knows four more foreign languages, including Ancient Greek and Latin, studies comparative literature, volunteers at a homeless shelter and an animal shelter, and on weekends he helps in a fleurist-bookshop in the neighborhood. He knows everything about Enjolras’ political and literary idols who’ve lived in Paris, and talks about where their homes are and where their meeting points. Enjolras is just about to wonder how well the young man would get along with his friends, when Courfeyrac’s name flashes on his phone screen.

“Sorry, I have to get that,” he raises his shoulders apologetically at Jehan because he hasn’t talked to his friends for a day and he misses them disgustingly much. Jehan winks and rests against a wall of what suspiciously looks like a cemetery, somewhere in Belleville. Enjolras swipes his thumb across the screen, and Combeferre together with Courfeyrac appear. His heart swells. Combeferre’s blurry image (complete with a deerstalker hat) smiles. “What’s in for the program today?”

“Uh, I don’t know yet?” Enjolras grimaces cheerfully. “For the timebeing I’m outside of what seems like a graveyard?”

“You’ll be inside soon,” Jehan croons silently but Courfeyrac hears him.

“Enjolras? Who’s the cutie?” he demands, squeezing himself into the camera as if that will move Enjolras’ lens and include Jehan. Enjolras does that manually anyway, and Jehan waves.

“How’d you call me, _chérie_?” he asks sweetly, and Enjolras can swear Courfeyrac is scared.

“This is Jehan,” Enjolras supplies, and Combeferre makes an effort to greet the boy, but Courfeyrac screws his eyebrows in determination. “I’m concerned for our baby boy,” he declares seriously. “How do we know it’s safe for Enjolras to hang out with you?”

“Courfeyrac…” Combeferre says warningly.

“I’ll show him how to write a poem for Grantaire…” Enjolras turns around in alarm because no, how can this make any sense? “I’ll take him to a cemetery,” okay no one told him about _that_? “ _et mon t-shirt est cool_.”

“May I see your shirt?” Combeferre asks with his solemn, scientific look.

“Sure,” Jehan shrugs his shoulders and takes Enjolras’ phone from his hand, to film the flower print of his shirt that looks like out of a herbology textbook. Combeferre checks it out for a couple of seconds and eventually nods approvingly.

 “Scientifically accurate,” he gives the verdict, and apparently that’s enough for _him_ to believe that Jehan is worthy enough to hang out with his childhood friend.

“Bless,” Jehan coos.

As for Courfeyrac, Enjolras thinks that he might have developed a crush, and he really doesn’t have time for that.

“Now,” he says seriously to his friends, “we have to go get some education. “I’ll see you guys later.”

When he hangs up the call, he turns to look at Jehan who’s scribbling something with a glitter pen on the inside of his wrist, his lips pulled into a huge yet timid smile. “So, are we going?”

“You… you weren’t serious about going to the cemetery, uh?”

“C’est le Père Lachaise, Enjolras,” Jehan raises his eyes, sounding appalled. “I don’t think you want to miss Délacroix’s grave!”

“No –” Enjolras hurries to answer, “I mean, of course not, it’s just, it’s not like I’m going to learn something more about him…”

Ok. Yeah. So Enjolras is kind of freaked out. Sue him.

_Oh in Robespierre’s name he sounds defensive he hates sounding defensive._

**[From: Courfeyrac] Do you think he finds me hot?**

**[From: Courfeyrac] U’ll talk to him about me won’t you??????**

**[From: Courfeyrac] Enjolras C’EST L’AMOUR!!!!!!11!!**

Apparently the part-quiet part-bubbly Jehan becomes a masochistically satisfied melancholic fae in the cemetery, as if he’s frolicking among the chords of The Smiths’ Cemetery Gates. He murmurs some rapid, awestruck French under his breath, he explains stuff in both languages and then collapses on benches oh-so-dramatically to wax poetic into a small journal of his. Enjolras has to admit that the whole thing has him anything but freaked out. This isn’t macabre, or if it is macabre, he decides he can get used to its noble peace. It’s oddly mystical, with ravens flying above their heads, a gentle breeze brushing against their cheeks and playing with Jehan’s colorful hair. Enjolras wonders if he has known beauty at all, because this is beautiful. Marble and a sea of leaves, cracking beneath their feet, flowers not yet withered, and a streak of sun peeking between the clouds.

They walk among Balzac, Délacroix, Méliés. Before Nérval, Jehan smiles quietly, solemnly, and at Piaf’s tomb he unpins the flower from his cardigan and bursts into tears. Enjolras is quite distanced from all this, he can’t really relate because he knows how to be awestruck better than most people do, he just has a different way to show it.

This is peace, at least that’s what Jehan told him, and then they made it poetry.

He’d never been particularly fond of Oscar Wilde, far from it. He had his objections concerning several issues, some of them sociopolitical, others about the erasure of other important men and women with possibly equal struggles and artistic influence. Yet he feels respect before the sphinx tomb, covered in lipstick kisses and fresh flowers. Jehan seems to have a weakness for the author, and he takes Enjolras by the hand to read the Dorian Gray engravement on the back (which he already knows by heart).

 _And alien tears will fill for him_  
Pity’s long broken urn  
For his mourners will all be  
Outcast men and outcasts  
Always mourn.

He hasn’t the faintest about why he thinks of Grantaire, but he does.

He thanks Jehan for the time he took to walk with him, and tries to decline taking lunch with a bunch of people he doesn’t know, but Jehan can be really menacing, so they end up at the fleurist-bookshop where he works.

He meets Cosette, a chubby blond girl from Japan who came in Paris over a decade ago, when her father adopted her. She’s sunshine, with her pastel dresses and delicious cupcakes (they are art and they should be in a museum). She works with Jehan and they complete each other with their flowery knowledge. She studies ecology and bakes for the customers, while Jehan organizes slam poetry evenings in the stuffed flower shop that looks like an overly colorful jungle. Bahorel brings their lunch in trays, a towering man that looks terrifying at first, but then again he’s clad in neon, he’s cooked the best (and only) loco moco Enjolras has ever tasted and he lets Jehan and Cosette braid his dreadlocks and beard with flowers. They get into a heated conversation about cultural appropriation, sexualization and objectification of cultures in a commercialized celebration such as Halloween which isn’t even French, but Jehan has to disagree only about the last beat, since the shop is practically already full with the weirdest stuff Enjolras has ever seen, like pink lady bug fairy lights and creepy dancing pink glowing Flamingo skeletons. Not to mention the Hamlet skulls that display the flowers for the customers in crowns, and Jehan treats them like friends. _Alive._ Friends. 

It’s strange. Flowers, tea and bookshops. They had never been his things, he’d never cared about them if he was back home, but now he’s met those people, Grantaire’s friends, and he feels like he _fits,_ it just feels so good. They’re well-read and they care about the same things that he does, they’re really into social justice, and together with Combeferre and Courfeyrac they’d have the most interesting, passionate (if not drunk) conversations. He’s just met them and they make him feel like home.

Somewhere in the back of his mind appears a wonder, of how exactly they’re friends with Grantaire, but then he just _sees_ it, and he’s never felt more awful in his life.

He’s having a great time but he has work to do, his mind will probably stop functioning like a well-trained alarm clock or like Hermione’s responsibility journal only when he dies.

“Thank you for everything you’ve done to me today,” he smiles awkwardly at Jehan who’s sitting on an accordion twice his size.

“Is there anything else we can do?” Jehan takes his hands into his own and Enjolras feels oddly touched.

“You’ve done enough,” something downs his mind. “I was just wondering… do you know a nice coffee shops around here? I need somewhere quiet to study.”

“Oh of course,” Jehan’s eyes narrow dangerously with what looks oddly enough like self-satisfaction and Enjolras fails to understand. “There’s a _swell_ coffee shop, just around the corner!” Dramatic pause, Courfeyrac that’s for you. “Il s’appelle Le Café Musain.”

“Oh,” Enjolras mutters, quite taken aback, tidying his books and notes in his messenger bag. “Um, thanks.”

He walks outside the flower shop feeling almost cheerful, even though the thought of his responsibilities is making him quite anxious. It’s cold outside and the prospect of a steamy mug of coffee and a comfortable armchair is already relaxing him. It’s easy to find the Café Musain, it’s literally around the corner. He pushes the door open, hearing the bell ring. It’s all cozy and welcoming, wooden furniture, dim lighting, earthy wallpapers and fairy lights. The rich smell of fresh blend coffee and baked goods hits his nose, and soft jazz is coming from a record player. His eyes are fixed on the bar, there’s something about the barista. The tight green sweater beneath his apron, and tattoos peeking on his collarbones. And under those wild, dark curls, the most surprised, blue eyes he’s ever seen.

It’s Grantaire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French-English translation of the dialogues (all praise goes to the wonderful epicnessatitsbest)  
> seulement ivre: I'm drunk  
> par le soleil: with the sun  
> Avec qui as-tu couché ?: With whom have you slept?  
> Tu ne parles pas, c’est inquiétant: You don't speak, it's worrying.  
> Regarde, t’es immobile comme le marbre: Look, you're still like marble.  
> Putain, qu’est-ce qui c’est passe?: Fuck, what's going on?  
> As-tu besoin d’un verre?: Do you need a drink?  
> Tu as besoin d’un verre, mec: You need a drink, man.  
> Je suis comme Icare, don’t les ailes ont fondu avant qu’il ne puisse baiser le soleil: I'm like Icarus, whose wings melted before he could fuck the sun  
> et mon t-shirt est cool: and my t-shirt is cool  
> trèsmignon: very cute


	3. The Night you can’t remember, the night I can’t forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras: He’s making me pumpkin latte  
> Courfeyrac: So it IS serious  
> Enjolras: Why?  
> Courfeyrac: because that screams autumn romance more than gifs of porn stars with their dicks shoved balls deep up a pumpkin fml

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry for taking too much to update, but Paris is really hard to write for me right now. I mean, it probably doesn’t make any sense but I’m feeling quite distanced from things lately and I don’t have much time for daydreaming, I guess. My finals start in two weeks and I’m not even freaking out (yet) so I don’t know how the whole thing will turn out to be. Anyway, I’m definitely planning to complete that story because, as I’ve said before, I need most of these things that may seem pretentious to you to be written, even if that means I must struggle for what should come unbiased. This is a quite problematic chapter, I know, I know. There’s all the Paris repetition, the sappy predictable ending, the even more predictable (concerning my mannerist writing) vomiting and masturbating (for which you should be warned) and the bit about feminism which might be depicted problematically and, in which case, I would very much like you to point that out to me so that I could change it, but the whole privilege thing and the way Enjolras deals with it has bothered me enough to at least mention it in three or four lines.  
> The French is, once again, revised and corrected by the amazing epicnessatitsbest, without whom this story would be wholly incorrect pretentious crap, instead of just pretentious crap. So thank you so much, I appreciate your help more than you can imagine <3  
> Title is from The Night you can’t remember by the Magnetic Fields. You should definitely hear it if you haven't already.  
> I hope it doesn’t suck a lot and I promise plot in the next chapter. Opinions and constructive criticism are always more than welcome.

What does he do, _what does he do?_

_Panic, panic, panic…_

He considers turning around and walking outside, pretending he’s done a mistake, but Grantaire has already spotted him and for all he knows it would only be wrong to leave without even saying hi, so Enjolras takes a deep breath and walks up to the bar, without looking anywhere around him. Grantaire is still staring at him with wide open eyes, but his expression soon enough cools up, leaning over the bar and smiling crookedly.

“Didn’t expect to find you here, Apollo,” he says quietly, taking a mug in his hands and wipes it.  

“I… Jehan told me… I didn’t know you work here, I wouldn’t normally bother you at work, I just want a coffee…”

Grantaire looks unimpressed. “Of course that was Prouvaire’s work,” he sighs. “Listen, just go sit and I’ll bring your coffee, okay?”

“Uh, a double espresso, please. I’ve got work to do. Also, do you serve fair trade?”

“I don’t believe in _fair trades,_ Apollo…” Grantaire says enigmatically before adopting a mock Starbucks voice. “Would you like to try our pumpkin latte instead?” Enjolras already _has_ to groan.

“Listen, I don’t…”

“Trust me, this is the pumpkin latte of sin,” Grantaire winks and dismisses him to a table near the window.

It’s raining again, and Enjolras finds his gaze fleeing outside. He takes a deep breath, trying to relax, from all the tension of the new things and experiences, but it’s quite hard to achieve that when Grantaire is preparing his coffee just across the bar. He finds himself trying hard not to look, not to stare at him exchanging words with the other barista in muffled tones, letting small laughs and throwing his arm around her waist. Something jolts inside him and he hates it. Grantaire looks so different here, he’s in his workplace yet something about him is more relaxed, there are small wrinkles next to his eyes  when he laughs, he throws his head back and exposes the clean curve of his neck, dark scruff on his cheeks, and his hands, _oh his hands._

Enjolras remembers him painting, pictures him playing some instrument, the piano, maybe... Jehan should write poems about Grantaire’s hands.

He can feel his cheeks prickling uncomfortably, and he hides his face in his books. He takes out his notes, arranges and rearranges them, then shoves half of them back in his bag. He doesn’t know why he feels so frustrated, hell, it’s just _Grantaire._ Maybe he just needs his coffee, he needs it so badly, and _real fucking coffee, not a stupid pumpkin latte…_

He takes out his phone and snaps the coffee shop to Courfeyrac.

**Enjolras: Idk how but I’m at the coffee shop where R works**

Courfeyrac’s face appears on the screen with an eyebrow climbed up under his curls.

**Courfeyrac: No.**

**Courfeyrac: Don’t tell me.**

**Enjolras: So. He’s making me pumpkin latte**

**Courfeyrac: So it IS serious**

**Enjolras: Why?**

**Courfeyrac: because that screams autumn romance more than gifs of porn stars with their dicks shoved balls deep up a pumpkin fml**

**Enjolras: Help**

**Enjolras: What do I do?**

**Courfeyrac: Show him to me? Airbnb photos aren’t that helpful**

The rightful and the juvenile part of Enjolras battle inside him. Eventually he raises his phone and sneaks a picture of Grantaire as he leans and whispers something in the other girl’s ear and she grimaces, unimpressed. Heaving a sigh, he forwards it to Courfeyrac.

**Courfeyrac: Eat him.**

**Enjolras: Pardon?**

**Courfeyrac: EAT HIM Enjolras, HE’S A HOT PIECE OF aSS!!1**

**Enjolras: You’re really not helping**

It takes a while for Courfeyrac to respond and Enjolras is getting touchy. Eventually the screen flashes with Combeferre’s face, looking slightly tired. Enjolras hopes Combeferre isn’t working himself too hard.

**Courfeyrac: (though it’s really Combeferre) What exactly do you need help with?**

**Enjolras: I shouldn’t be here**

**Enjolras: It’s not like we’re friends**

**Enjolras: I don’t want to interfere with his work**

**Courfeyrac: Right.**

**Courfeyrac: I see.**

**Courfeyrac: Well, I’m afraid we’re both engaged with prior engagements, Enjolras.**

**Courfeyrac: Enjoy your coffee.**

Enjolras is left staring at his phone with eyes opened widely in shock. So this is what friendship is all about? The one worshipped in poems, the comradery engraved in history? He waits but his friends don’t reply.

He’s all alone, and Grantaire is bringing his coffee.

*

He watches him work from behind the counter, pretending to do something like wiping the counter or wiping his ass _fucked if he knows_ every time their eyes are about to meet through the crowd. He’s so calm and cute and inhumanly beautiful and _how can you be all those things together while also being concentrated, how?_

Well, life must be real tough when you’re some sort of Greek deity high on caffeine.

He keeps notes and types on his laptop and, every now and then, Grantaire catches him wandering outside the window. The rain has stopped now and everything is pale and misty, and for once he’s not pissed by the chattering and clinking of the café. He can’t take his eyes off of Enjolras and he’s somehow lost in it, even while working – _especially_ while working – because it’s his background, it’s _their_ background noise, their song that Enjolras can never know about and Grantaire keeps repeating to himself that they’re under the same roof, it’s a barista and it’s his flatmate, it’s Nina Simone’s divine voice from the record player and the noise of the coffee shop, and it can’t change _it can’t_.

Enjolras gets up and his heart sinks, and he walks up and thanks for the coffee, says he was surprised by how good it was, and Grantaire just nods his way through it, and Enjolras gathers his stuff and walks out, and Grantaire deflates.

“J’en peux plus,” he croaks to Eponine, pressing  the heels of his hands against his eyes. “ _J’en peux plus.”_

“Tu peux venir demeurer chez moi,” she supplies helpfully, raising a thick eyebrow.

“Si je le laisse il va mourrir tout seul! Il ne peut pas cuisiner, il n’est q’un bébé-phoque!” he moans in despair, resting his back against the coffee machine.

“Un bébé-phoque aux cheveux  de soleil et un cul remarquable, n’est pas?” she snorts sarcastically.

“Je t’avoue que je perds la tête!”

Eponine turns to look at him almost pitifully with those fiery dark eyes of hers. “T’es déjà perdu, _honey_.”

*

He catches a glimpse of his reflection as he walks out of the small boulangerie in the quartier before heading home. The bread can’t be fresh at this hour of the evening and he feels tipsy, shaken. Maybe it is the dead leaves and pinecones that knock you on the head with every other step you take in this bloody town. Maybe it is the cheap wine Eponine the badass witch made magically appear under the counter of the café. He doesn’t know if anything is supposed to make sense right now, but he stands opposite the glass wall and cackles internally for a quite prolonged version of seconds.

_Look at you and your fucking baguette you pathetic walking cliché._

His lungs are out of air already before climbing the five stores of stairs. Something is pressing against his chest, maybe his heart, maybe he’s swelling. He’s being chased, but by what lays in his destination. He peers inside the apartment and rests against the door, exhaling.

Uh. Des conneries.

So yeah, um, Enjolras is kind of naked, save from a towel around his waist, sitting with his elbows propped up on the kitchen table and his sinfully curling hair dripping on a plate full of crumbs, absorbed by the screen of his phone, while Grantaire dies quietly in his corner. There is a voice coming from the phone, speaking in rapid English. Enjolras notices him while Grantaire thinks of ways to disapparate somewhere in the depths of hell, and smiles absently and somewhat timidly, as if he’s forgotten he’s sitting half naked and _wet_ in the middle of Grantaire’s kitchen. “Hey,” he mouths, and Grantaire is dying, Grantaire is dead, Grantaire is a mere obscurity frolicking in the _ventre_ of oblivion.

The English voice is heard again. “It’s Grantaire, he’s home,” Enjolras explains, obviously trying to attract attention away from the subject, but the voice is not letting that go so easily.

“Omg bring him here!”

“Courfeyrac…”

“Where are your manners, Enjolras, have you not introduced your best friends to your flatmate!”

“He’s not…”

“Now, that’s downright rude, bring him over I want to say hello…”

Enjolras raises his eyes, with a sigh, and gestures to Grantaire to approach. When Grantaire waves his hands in panic, Enjolras gestures even more intensely.

Grantaire isn’t exactly alive, doesn’t really know what life has been till today, Grantaire is screwed Grantaire is fucked and shit is falling pretty much apart.

He makes his way to the kitchen table with shaky knees, as Enjolras adjusts the camera and Grantaire freaks the fuck out because he sees his face. Their faces. Both their faces on the same camera and Enjolras is smiling and Grantaire’s insides are trying to jump their way out of his throat but he also sees his _own_ face and he looks just the way he feels: breathless. Enjolras’ wet mop of blond hair is literally a kiss away. He smells of coconut shampoo and the way his alabaster torso is sculpted sends all the sorts of disturbing signs to Grantaire’s artistic dick, the curves of his pale shoulders are begging to be touched _and God has anyone told him how bad his posture is?_

“Gran _taire_ baby!” Courfeyrac’s cheerful face appears on the screen, “Enjo here has said _sooo_ much about you!”

“Well, have you,” Grantaire mutters blankly and Courfeyrac winks.

“Oh,” he chuckles mischievously. “ _Abs-_ olutely!”

Seriously. Fuck Courfeyrac. Fuck Apollo and his cheeky friends.

Just then the video image on Enjolras’ screen is covered by a text message. Which is by Jehan’s number, Grantaire would even recognize it shitfaced. How did Prouvaire get Apollo’s fucking number? _How._

 **[From: number]** **U coming to the Corinthe 2nite ok? We r gonna have so much fun :3**

**[From: number] U say no u die uwu**

_So, fuck._

*

There’s a reason Enjolras doesn’t do bars. Or parties, for that matter. And the reason is, they’re disorientating.

He doesn’t _detest_ fun. He’s not a monk, no matter what Grantaire might prefer to assume. Courfeyrac has seen Enjolras drunk. Combeferre has _dealt_ with it. Enjolras doesn’t mind going out. What he does mind is the frustrating imbalance between the tranquil reality of his thoughts and the vivacity of the music pounding almost violently in his veins, the surreal neon lights and the stars of the city he’s adored in every other hour of the day, but midnight in Paris will never be about vintage carriages that take him to Polidor’s. It’s harsh and dizzying and full of fading constellations that are spinning inside Enjolras’ head.

He’s standing awkwardly against a brick wall inside a small decadent retro bar that balances quite the right levels of pretentious, tacky, and too-loud-for-his-taste. Some kind of gypsy swing is playing on the stage, with accordions and other crazy stuff, and he has to admit it’s quite catchy, if not the music he’s used to listen to. They’re making an effort to get him comfortable and it’s not that he doesn’t appreciate it, but under no circumstances is he accepting the sparkly orange drink Bahorel keeps trying to offer him, or following Cosette on the dancefloor where Jehan is doing some eerie psychedelic moves, completely stoned, under a star embroidered veil Enjolras is sure once belonged to some pagan witch. He stands there instead, taking the occasional sips from his water because he likes living on the edge, eyeing the mayhem on the stage and trying to get used to the flashing lights and the thump of the music beneath his feet and inside his ribcage.

The thing is, he’s really not feeling comfortable, and isn’t going to, not in a million years, because the air is full of smoke and the dancefloor is full with people and then the dancefloor is full of Grantaire. Enjolras’ throat is lumped up, and he can’t stop staring.

The flashing lights are playing tricks with Grantaire’s hands, resting on the curves of Eponine’s sides, almost digging in her skin and Enjolras can feel their warmth prickling on his skin, on the base of his neck, as if he’s the one dancing with him. He sees her hips swaying against his own, her fingers teasing the waistband of his jeans, their dizzy smiles and the smoke that they share in the thin streak of breath between their lips. Eponine says something and Grantaire throws his head back to laugh, exposing the curve of his unshaven neck in what seems like slow motion and Enjolras can almost hear it, croaked and twisted and _poisoned,_ he wants to taste that laughter but then again he doesn’t because Grantaire’s wild locks are dancing around into the light and the dark and then again, their bodies are moving in a debauched agreement and this feels so intimate that Enjolras isn’t sure whether he’s allowed to witness it. He holds his breath as Grantaire’s body curves and writhes in Eponine’s arms, his shirt riding up, his thighs thrusting against hers, music pumping, slowed down, through their sweaty mess, and Enjolras has had enough.

He’s grabbing his coat to go, because he has work in the morning and Paris is waiting for him to be alone, and _devoted,_ and Enjolras can’t really breathe with all that smoke stuffed in his lungs.

“Ou vas-tu?” someone growls behind his shoulder, and he turns around expecting to see Bahorel, but Jehan is staring at him menacingly and pulls him on the dancefloor, coat still hanging from one shoulder, and Enjolras is already sweating like a horse and part of him _really_ wants to throw up.

He lets Jehan guide his limp body. He can sense eyes on them, it’s not like he hasn’t always been annoyingly aware of the effects his looks have had on people, and Jehan is a very attractive boy as well, pressed up against his chest and smelling heavily of chili and gardenias.

And then Jehan isn’t there, he’s somewhere with Bahorel and Enjolras is left in the middle of the dancefloor _and he can feel him close._

He doesn’t know how he manages to shove his way out of the crowd and outside in the piercing cold air that slaps his face. All he knows is that he’s in some empty, dark alley, with people sharing joints and making out in the corners. He wraps his coat tightly around him and drags a greedy breath of air, trying to clear his mind from everything that doesn’t make sense anymore. Next thing he knows he’s out, he can smell the smoke in his breath and he swallows his own. It’s drawing small frozen clouds in the air, and his eyes slide shut.

“Come back inside, Apollo,” he slurs in deep, accentuated voice. “You’ll freeze your balls off.”

“You stink,” he hears himself murmuring disgustedly as he turns around. His meninges are pounding furiously. “You’re drunk, you must come with me at home.”  

“C’est pas grave, _mon Ange,_ ” he whispers hoarsely, making another step so that Enjolras can almost feel the heat radiating off his body. “Vas-y. Va là où tut e sens chez toi.”

Enjolras stares at him incredulously for a while, his heart starting up a riot in his chest. Then he turns around and walks to the bus stop.

*

Shadows are dancing on the dark ceiling and he wishes he could spell Grantaire’s name with them. He’s woken up in the middle of the night, from the sounds of his flatmate wretching his guts out in the bathroom, and he wishes he could flush his own stomach down the toilet because it’s clenching with anger and remorse. He should have stayed with Grantaire, taken him home, _whispered prayers in his lips, angry and drunk._

He wants to get up and see how Grantaire’s doing but he’s in some hazy state between dreams and reality, and Grantaire’s snoring comes steady from the living room, so Enjolras drowns into a heavy slumber.

He wakes up sluggish and sloppy, realizing he’s drooled all over the pillow. Sun is peering through the window and it’s getting increasingly hot under the duvet, his breath stale and disgusting, his insides knotted uncomfortably. It feels so wrong, the hardness pressing against his thigh, the warmth pooling on the pit of his stomach, and he throws himself up because he needs this to end.

The living room is bombarded with clothes, the bathroom is empty and cleaned in a rush but a foul smell lingers in the air. Enjolras has never felt like that before. It’s intense, his heart plummeting against his ribs and his head spinning as if he’s the one with the hangover.

He tries hard, with cold water and lots of faith but he doesn’t want to end up with an icicle for a dick so he turns the tap to hot again, burning until the air in the shower becomes thick and foggy. It helps with his head and tensed muscles, feeling it loosening him up, but he’s pounding, all of him, as if to the beat of yesterday’s music.

His hand is shaking against his skin before he can control himself. His breath is swirling before him, steamy and desperate, his frantic pulse is giving the pace. His fingers wrap around his length against their better judgment and he rests his forehead on the wet piles of the wall, gritting his teeth in order not to scream as he strokes himself loose. He comes with a muffled cry, hot water melting the shame off his shoulders.

He’s wiping his hair with a towel, still feeling sick to his stomach when he gets to the kitchen and checks his phone.

**[From: R] sorry for seeing me shitfaced i guess, i finish at 1, let me buy u a coffee**

He sighs, waving his head at how fucked up this is. He hasn’t forgotten last night, he still can’t decipher why he feels so angry but he does nevertheless and his heart just won’t stay still.

**[To: R] I can drink coffee at home.**

**[From: R] don’t live cheap apollo**

Enjolras frowns as he looks at the screen.

**[To: R] You do realize how disgusting that sounds.**

**[To: R] Still, are you sure you’re okay? You were drunk yesterday.**

**[From:R] not worse than all the times i’ve drunk my paint water**

Enjolras can’t help but smile.

**[From: R] ok seriously i know i’m a shit host but give me a chance 2 go sightseeing**

**[From: R] i wasnt shitting u when i said i know paris better than my butt**

Seriously?

**[To: R] That would be nice, where should we meet?**

It takes a while for his phone to buzz again.

**[From: R] louvre, marble statues**

**[From: R] i’ll know where to look 4 u**

_So yeah._

Fuck you Grantaire.

Fuck you and your attractive butt.

*

He tries hard to remember if he’s ever felt truly happy before, that genuine and whole, almost hyper kind of childish happiness, but it somehow feels like all his life before Paris has been blurred, in the way you can’t remember yourself before a new boyfriend, a new dog or even a new haircut. Everything that waits for him at home and everything that’s somehow asking him back is mashed up in the map of the city he’s walked for only a few hours yet feels like all the information and experience he’s gradually gaining is already stocked somewhere in the back of his mind. He refuses to accept the existence of another dimension: Combeferre and Courfeyrac are waiting in a midway passage somewhere in an airplane, his studies are going to continue at the Sorbonne and he’s already found the café their entire group will get on with their meetings.

The wind is frosty and clear and there’s something about the glazed, white streaks of sky that peak through the rattling rust leaves that makes him feel so free. They walk on the pavement with the Louvre and all its history on their one side and the Seine with the picturesque boats on the other, discussing TV series Enjolras hadn’t even realized he watched until he did, and a couple of tourist boat riders suggest to take them for a walk.

Enjolras frowns as they walk past them. “Did they take us for tourists?” he asked grumpily.

“What are the odds?” Grantaire asks sarcastically. “Maybe they noticed that, you know,” he lowers his voice emphatically, “we speak English!” At the tightening of Enjolras’ features, Grantaire punches his shoulder teasingly. “Don’t worry Apollo, you look more French than me!”

“I do?” Enjolras asks in half-awe, only to regain his composure and clear his throat a mere moment later. Grantaire can’t stop smiling at his adorable blush till they finally get inside the Orsay, and his heart swells three times its size like it always does.

While Grantaire is left gaping in shock at how Enjolras has led a life without having written a critical essay on Orientalism or even knowing about Bouguereau or even _Degas’_ existence, the latter wanders around silently in awe at his flatmate’s artistic knowledge. There’s something in the unlikely enthusiasm of his usually cynical voice as if he truly thinks the world would change if people saw what he does in a painting, or maybe it’s just that intriguing, devoted look of reverence he’s spotted glowing in his eyes once or twice, and rendered Enjolras breathlessly uncomfortable, or uncomfortably breathless. Without ever claiming he understands shit about art, Enjolras eventually decides he likes Impressionism and it’s quite funny because he actually feels that’s something noteworthy or determinant for the originality of his character, until he learns that it’s the most mainstream thing people tend to like. Grantaire adores the Impressionists too, of course, so he spends enough time wandering among Monet, Guillaumin and Morisot, explaining the use of colors and light in a way Enjolras would never have imagined he’d find fascinating. It’s a painting that takes their breath away among others, after they return to the lower floor where _Égalité devant la mort_ leaves them with an undisguisable hollowness they can’t decipher.

Enjolras is on the verge of being an excitable child when they enter the gates of the Luxembourg gardens, which is a good thing, considering it’s cold as balls and all that energy might be keeping his ridiculous ancient sculpture-Burberry coat ad figure warm. There’s something about Apollo and autumn, Grantaire muses, about the way he simply fits in the picture, with his gigantic woolen scarf flowing behind him, his porcelain cheeks splotched with roses, his curly golden hair mussed atop of his head, contrasting cleanly against the bronze background of the dancing leaves and their mausoleum carpet. But then again, no matter how out of place he might seem, Enjolras will ironically enough manage to fit in every season _everywhere,_ with poppies sprawled over his chest like a banner and sun kissing his temple like a sin…

So yeah, fuck this, Enjolras has claimed to be the fucking sun shining down on Grantaire’s pathetic existence like a Magnetic Fields song and this isn’t going to change, ever, and he’s even brought some actual rays to glow through the clouds and warm the grass where cheerful Parisians are sitting, bundled up in coats that start to peel off.

They sit on the green chairs in front of the palace for a while, enjoying the sunny chill that prickles on their skin. Enjolras has got a book out on his lap and is highlighting fiercely in pink – Marx, of course. Grantaire raises an incredulous yet approving eyebrow at the sight of the two small tomes peeking through his open messenger bag: Foucault and Judith Butler. Feeling quite useless and not knowing what to do with his hands, he takes out his sketchbook and starts to doodle. It doesn’t work, his fingers are shaking. Maybe it’s the cold numbing his knuckles, maybe it’s the pencil that vomits curves and lines all over the coffee stained paper, fucked if he knows. It somehow all turns to red leaves and poppies and the sun vomiting upon pale marble. His temples are pounding with frustration as he crumples a piece of paper between his frozen, gloveless fingers and his gaze drifts amiss.

“What are you drawing?” a warm voice snaps him back into reality only it’s one of the strangest sorts, because, even though he lives in this city, he hasn’t been used in a reality full of blossomed, colorful gardens in the middle of autumn. Enjolras’ eyes are shining bright with interest and Grantaire is fucking swooning.

“Just… doodles,” he murmurs. “ _Pas du tout_ as interesting as the Manifesto,” he smirks bitterly, gesturing at the book on Enjolras’ lap.

“Oh, that?” Enjolras waves vividly. “I’m writing an essay on Marxist Feminism and Queer Theory!”

“You should show it to Cosette. You’d sure have some points to differ.”

“Why do you always want to focus on people’s differences instead of the points they have in common?” Enjolras asks, his voice rather interested than disapproving.

“I don’t know, Apollo,” Grantaire hums, deciding to elude the question. “Is your feminism intersectional?”

“Course it is!” he protests, offended even by the question.

“Cool,” Grantaire nods in approval. “How?”

“Uh, excuse me?”

“How exactly do you do the whole thing? I mean, tell me and I’ll admire you wholeheartedly. But I’m really interested in the ways of the advocacy of women by third parties, _c’est-à-dire_ , by white privileged males, without silencing _their_ voices and making it all about you once again.”

Enjolras sighs. “Okay,” he says slightly more sharply than intended. “So I’m privileged, I know that well enough and I fight to change that every day. Do you suggest I stay silent and enjoy this despicable privilege I don’t even share with my best friends, who are also fighting with me for this cause? Also,” he pursues his lips, shoving his book into his bag. “Are you deliberately forgetting about the queer part? Because when it comes to _that,_ last time I checked I was oh so _far_ from what you’d call privileged, concerning I’ve been denied jobs and been shut out from my family.”

They’ve not exchanged harsh words and aren’t intending to do so, but something in the atmosphere has tensed and it’s sad and uncomfortable, considering that the sun is now glimmering brightly over the lake and the flowers are blooming with fragrance, ostensibly from the very beginning.

“I’m going to get us crepes,” Grantaire stands up, reaching in his pockets for a few coins. “Your friends will gut me if I forget to keep you fed.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras murmurs, his voice still sounding slightly cold. “I’m allergic to bananas,” he reminds Grantaire, who can do nothing but raise his eyebrows incredulously.

He takes a quick walk among the Medici statues, systematically avoiding the crepe kiosk. He needs fresh air, twice the quantity that Enjolras sucks from his lungs when he’s around. Grantaire hasn’t the foggiest of what in fuck’s name is happening to him. He’s hungover and miserable, sure, but that has happened before. In fact he can hardly recall a time when this _didn’t_ happen.

He has this constant _thing_ in his stomach, only it’s not butterflies. They’re wild animals and evil woodland creatures gnawing him raw from inside out, until he feels ready to explode, his heart fighting them tumultuously before it melts upon the cage of his chest. He’s ridiculously alone in this, who could he talk to anyway, and what would he say? Bahorel would laugh and suggest good naturedly to settle down with a good boxing match and mediocre shag. He’d even volunteer for both. Cosette would start throwing masterplans of seduction involving garters and confessing his undying love in a scented notebook hidden in questionable pieces of red lingerie. As for Jehan, he’d quote part IV of Shelley’s Ode to the West Wind and possibly arrange a pagan dance in the moonlight atop of the Eiffel Tower to summon the love demons. Grantaire has been doomed from the very start.

Crows fly around the barren trees and he growls through gritted teeth, kicking a pile of rustling leaves with his scruffy boot. A disturbed mother puts her hands on her drooling child’s shoulders and guides him away, as if Grantaire gives a flying fuck. His heart aches so much it can’t possibly be livable, and he doesn’t need a fucking medical degree to tell. He’s never felt more genuinely _sad,_ in a masochistic way that makes him derive his living breath from it. It can’t be fixed and he wonders if it’ll ever get better. Then he wonders if he wants it to.

He gets two crepes with Bailey’s for him and extra bitter chocolate for Enjolras and walks back to the lake, but he’s nowhere to be found. He doesn’t even condemn his luck as he saves the chocolate from a murderous hungry crow, because he’s spotted the mop of blond hair sitting in some other chair, on the left side of the Medici fountain. He doesn’t let Enjolras see he’s arrived, desperately grasping on the moment from a distance, watching him because there is no world for Grantaire if this isn’t part of it, the gentle breeze that howls through the glazed green waters and makes tiny floating boats out of the soaked leaves, and he wants to drink, to drink it all in, the filthy water with the duck shit and Enjolras’ sweet, misty breath as it mingles with the air, and the rain that frees Galatea and Acis from that dick Polyphemus but, on second thoughts, maybe Polyphemus was hurting, maybe Polyphemus was torn and dying from something he could never have, _peut-être qu’il y avait un cauchemar que les narcissistes du monde entier ignoraient, et ce sentiment précieux d’anticipation est, pour lui aussi, mort…_

Without noticing what Enjolras is up to, he walks closer to take a seat by the fountain, and it’s only too late when he realizes he’s invaded in something terribly, horribly private.

Enjolras is wearing earphones and speaking in rapid English Grantaire has to struggle to understand. From his tone, he gathers it’s probably one of his friends, the hot nerd with the glasses and the curly punny piece of shit. Enjolras’ voice comes out in hushed tones, and if Grantaire didn’t know him as well as their three day and half a lifetime of experience granted him with, he’d swear it sported a certain tone of distress.

“I swear he doesn’t even like me,” he hisses to his phone, “I’m trying, I really am, and I don’t know what is actually _wrong_ with me!”

It hits Grantaire like a punch in the stomach and suddenly he wants to throw up all over his boots.

If that’s the way Apollo wants to think, he isn’t going to play his little game.

*

Grantaire is oddly silent all afternoon and there is a heavy lump constantly blocking the way in Enjolras’ throat, only to tighten even more during their short stop at Pompidou center. He’d always ditched the idea of Modern Art, for some reason, but reconsidering the revolution behind the whole concept, he now fails to see why. They return home in the time when the sanguinated twilight spreads over the Jourdain metro station its ironic clarity of retiring and blocking it outside the Chatêlet-Mairie des Lilas 11th line.

Collapsing on the not too spacious couch with the patched, embellished cushions feels strangely warm and domestic to Enjolras. There’s something about the smell of the apartment he’s getting accustomed to, and he realizes it’s the way Grantaire’s own scent is incarnated in it when he collapses next to him, their knees lightly brushing together. He’s feeling way too tired to even reach for his notes in his bag, yet he’s still trying to summon strength for it in his mind. Grantaire must be reading it, because he groans “Not happening!” When Enjolras attempts to ask him to elaborate, he stands up and heads to the kitchen, stretching his – rather flexible – body on his way. “You’re taking a break, Goldilocks,” he informs Enjolras when he returns with a mug of pretentious Prouvaire tea and a plate of heated noodles.

“What do you mean?” Enjolras asks, feeling threatened after all the ‘breaks’ Courfeyrac has decided to give him over the past few years. “My whole day has been a break!”

“My chère Mademoiselle,” Grantaire makes a dramatic gesture in front of the TV, reaching in an acrobatic way for the remote, “it is with deepest pride, and greatest pleasure, to welcome you tonight!”

“ _Not_ Beauty and the Beast!” Enjolras groans in pain, but it’s too late because the DVD is already loading on Grantaire’s ancient player. The man shakes his head and slumps himself on the couch again, taking his own noodles on his lap and reaching for the remote on the coffee table. “No break is a real break without Disney and noodles. Special treats for pretentious students who are suckers for my sucking city.”

If anyone had ever dared to tell Enjolras that, at some point of his life, he’d sing along Little Town (and say all the Bonjour’s on time) and Tale as Old as Time, he’d have received an entirely too serious lecture on the French bourgeoisie of the 18th century and how the cartoons deserved the upcoming guillotine, but things happen beyond any imagination, so Enjolras ends up shamelessly tearing up over Esmeralda’s song, feeling the warmth Grantaire’s body radiates under the duvet they share, their shoulders less than an inch apart, flinching every time their knuckles touch when they reach for the remote and the Dorito bowl. He hasn’t felt so relaxed in years, and there’s something about Grantaire’s warm breath brushing against his skin and the rhythmical rise and fall of his chest, that makes him want to linger in that moment forever. They can hear the occasional sounds from the other apartments as their fingers intertwine under the duvet. Grantaire’s eyes are glinting in the blue, dim light of the television in the dark room, and Enjolras finds himself falling hard, somewhere inside a social debate on the Aristocats. His head is resting on Grantaire’s shoulder all throughout Ratatouille, until the steady sound of his heartbeat lulls him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The translations (with the help of the epic epicnessatitsbest) are the following:  
> “J’en peux plus.": I can't anymore.  
> “Tu peux venir demeurer chez moi.": You can come stay at my place  
> “Si je le laisse il va mourrir tout seul! Il ne peut pas cuisiner, il n’est q’un bébé phoque!”: If I leave him he'll die all alone! He can't cook, he's just a baby seal!  
> “Un bébé-phoque aux cheveux de soleil et un cul remarquable, n’est pas?”: A baby seal with hair of sun and a remarkable ass, isn't it?  
> Des conneries: nonsense/bullshit  
> “Je t’avoue que je perds la tête!”: I swear I'm losing my mind!  
> “T’es déjà perdu, honey.”: You're already lost, honey.  
> peut-être qu’il y avait un cauchemar que les narcissistes du monde entier ignoraient, et ce sentiment précieux d’anticipation est, pour lui aussi, mort…: maybe it was a nightmare that the narcissists of the entire world ignored, and that precious sentiment of anticipation is, for him too, dead. (yes i know i'm pretentious)


	4. Carry our bodies safe to the shore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[From: You] He works at a sex shop.  
>  …  
> …  
> …  
> [From: You] Courfeyrac  
> [From: You] COURFEYRAC  
> [From: Courfeyrac] So I’m looking up flights for your parents  
> [From: Courfeyrac] By which I mean Combeferre and me  
> [From: Courfeyrac] Combeferre is going to wear a tweed skirt and weep in a lace handkerchief  
> [From: Courfeyrac] Don’t you fret my offspring I shall arrange everything about your wedding dress  
> [From: Courfeyrac] Joly suggests you propose with cat gifs  
> [From: Courfeyrac] We WILL have vibrator discounts and freebies, right?  
> [From: Courfeyrac] I’m such a proud parent**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm extremely sorry for taking so long, exams are finishing tomorrow which means it might get slightly better but it's only that, I've had the worst writer's block I've experienced in years so yeah, I really appreciate your patience and I honestly don't know how you keep bearing with this fic, it feels like one of the worst things I've ever written though I really hope it's not. Sorry for the sex shop randomness, I saw La Prise de la Pastille at some site and I simply couldn't let it go! The puns in this are seriously horrible but I guess that's their point, Courfeyrac is my baby and Grantaire wants to claw his way out of his ridiculous life. There's a lot of feelings because I'm full of shit and pretentiousness. Sex shop, snogging and depression warnings.  
> The whole chapter obviously inspired by the Monsters and Men's song Little Talks.  
> Most of the translations owe their existence to my wonderful friend epicnessatitsbest but I forgot to send her some of the others so if you spot mistakes please tell me, it's all my fault.  
> Opinions and constructive criticism are always more than welcome.  
> Thank you so much for reading!

He’s getting used to the warmth in which he wakes up, enough to dread the possibility that life might not eternally be full of comfort and sluggishness and all things lazy, also that not all duvets ever might smell like Grantaire.

It’s a cold, dreary morning, and his toes feel threaten to fall off when he makes the terrible mistake to set them on the floor. It’s a paradox, that aside of the overall settling feeling of domesticity, he hasn’t slept well at all, and his shoulders feel sore and knotted. It takes more than ten minutes of bleary blinking to realize it’s because he’s fallen asleep curled unorthodoxly in the small couch.

After having stayed for a few days in the apartment, he has started figuring out several specific details, owner included or not. For example, the weak light of a clouded morning is always filtered in such a way that makes the shadows disappear making you feel isolated. In sunny afternoons, dust swirls in the light above the colorful rugs like a sleepy ballet of tiny fairies. He’s acquainted with every scent and every sound he hears in his sleep and when he wakes, muffled conversations in different languages and accents, bikes and dogs and the precarious buzzing of the cars, followed by the silver shapes on the dark ceiling. He’s used to all that, though he isn’t used to Grantaire in the morning. It was part of Enjolras’ priorities and of their much appreciated webpage arrangement, to cross paths as little as possible, let alone in absurd domestic situations such as waking up in the same house and walking around all groggy and disoriented, but his landlord has somehow managed to crawl his way into his life, and now Enjolras finds ugly things dancing in his chest at the secretly disappointing realization that Grantaire is, once again, gone.

He takes his time to stretch stubbornly, his stomach emptying and jolting every time he tries to think of real life and of what is taking place in the absurdity it’s turned into. Mere possibilities of things he hadn’t even imagined make him cringe, in a way that leaves him breathless and dizzy with hyperventilation afterwards, and that’s honestly is not okay combined with the amounts of responsibility he’s left behind. The kitchen smells like coffee and it’s cold and comfortingly bitter. He briefly attempts to remember sipping his coffee somewhere else, in a place he called home only a week ago. He tries to recall its taste (more or less like overly sweet catpiss, or maybe he’s just being dramatic) and the anxiety of downing it in a few seconds before storming out of his door with his pea coat and his bunny slippers still forgotten on his feet.

He curls up on the window pane with his laptop on his knees, trying to catch his friends for a proper video call before he leaves. It really is beyond him, why he’s constantly feeling upset without anything having happened, and his heartbeat is audible and wild and synchronized with the beeping coming from the computer.

Eventually Combeferre appears in the blurry screen, wiping his glasses with his usual small frown of concentration before noticing him and cracking an honest smile, and Enjolras’ world miraculously lights up.

“Hey,” he hears the familiar voice cracking over the 10.000km that part them. Everything immediately makes more sense, Combeferre’s presence even through a screen is always soothing before even having started to discuss what is in their minds, and he knows already that there’s going to be a solution. “Is it morning over there?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras smiles back, somewhat sheepishly. “Just woke up. Still haven’t managed to do some decent work though.”

“Ah, what a tragedy!,” Combeferre groans sarcastically. “For goodness’ sake Enjolras, just give yourself a break and make the most of the week you’ve been planning all through the year!”

 _Which is. Half a week. What he’s got left..._ “Yeah,” he clears his throat, “listen, that was what I wanted to, um… talk to you about.”

Combeferre readjusts himself on his seat in that way he’s got of showing people he’s free and concentrated on hearing their problem. “Everything okay?” he asks and Enjolras knows his friend way too many years to hear _Everything okay with your cynical coffee-making picture-painting sex-on-legs excessively-tattooed-for-your-own-sake flatmate you’ve been trying to hate since the moment he messed with your tricolor underwear?_

“Yes,” he rushes to answer, “ _fuck_ no.”

“Yes or no?” an eyebrow is raised. Enjolras doesn’t like that an eyebrow is raised.

“N-no. _Yes_! Uh, I don’t even know, Ferre!” he runs his fingers through his hair almost desperately, inevitably messing it up, too busy to feel ashamed of the somewhat high-pitched tone of his voice. “This… it wasn’t supposed to have happened!”

“Oh?” Combeferre sounds amused and that honestly isn’t helping. “And what, may I ask, _did_ happen beyond your greatest measure?”

“I don’t –” he hisses, sucking in a deep breath to regain his composure. “I don’t know, okay? Why won’t you try to help me instead of being a sarcastic little shit?”

“How am I supposed to help you,” Combeferre asks in a professional, if not slightly amused manner, “if you don’t tell me your problem?”                                                   

“Is this a pride thing?” Enjolras huffs. “An _I told you so_ thing, where you all want to prove that Enjolras would finally grow up and become like other people, isn’t it?” He immediately regrets raising his voice and clears his throat. “I just… please don’t make this more confusing than it already is for me, okay?”

“Having feelings for someone doesn’t make any less of your personality, convictions and ideas,” Combeferre mutters gently, a faint smile tugging on his lips. “You know that, right?”

“’Course,” Enjolras replies, softened, though in no way comforted, trying to figure out if he actually _did_ know that or had even thought about it before. “So… what do I do?”

“Okay, so. The fact that you’ve accepted the _existence_ of your feelings is always a good place to begin.” The image on the screen stirs blurrily, and Enjolras’ throat knots in discomfort. “Now you’ll know what to do. I hardly think you need my advice.”

He’s left alone with his eyes shut tightly, his forehead pressed on the window, raggedly breathing fog on the glass and his mug pressed between it and his chest, taking in some of more of what’s outside, reluctant to explore it for the first time, his thoughts heavy and suffocating like the grey thick clouds.

A couple of hours later he walks out of the Musée Carnavalet with several blurry portraits of Robespierre and Marat held dearly in his camera roll, rather upset with the selection of other exhibits that he felt were glorifying royalty and saying the story a bit one-sidedly. It doesn’t even cross his mind that his mood might be shit because Combeferre’s words have made his mind a train wreck, and righteously so at that. He rests his back against a grey wall and heaves a deep breath, then another, wondering if the whole thinking will ever start working

He’s panicking because everything has happened so suddenly for him to be able to get a grip. He’s been there for three days and leaves in almost the same amount of time and he knows the guy less than he knows most of his school professors, or his parents’ Republican friends, yet he’s lived in his house, slept in his bed as well as _sweet fucking hell_ on his shoulder _,_ sipped his coffee numerous times and done his laundry. He knows which is his favorite sweater (the forest green with the hole below the armpit), the shapes of his tattoos (grapevines and thorns and watercolor maps and twirling constellations), the songs he sings in the bathroom (Cell Block Tango, Under Pressure, and the occasional Chemical Romance song). His feet take him to the café without really knowing what to expect, maybe to declare his love loudly or earth to open up and swallow him before he dies from extensive cringing and choke on his incorrigible noises. Certainly, Grantaire not being there isn’t among his top choices.

He doesn’t recall Grantaire telling him that he and Eponine worked together, maybe he was just drunk. The poisonous Slytherin snake that first gnawed its way inside him when he saw them dancing now wakes up and hisses through his throat at the thought of them spending every hour _every day_ making jokes behind the counter, hugging and giggling over horrible puns next to the espresso machine, with all those memories to date through the years they’ve spent by each other’s side. Enjolras at least has the decency to feel embarrassed at his reaction, but he almost loses it when she spots him over the clients and smirks knowingly. In Theroigne Mericourt’s name, if everyone stared at him like _that_ before he’d accepted his feelings and he just didn’t notice, he may as well poke a hole in the wooden floor and make it suck him into oblivion.

“Hey,” he murmurs under his breath, walking to the counter as if they’re both conspiring against an oppressive regiment. “Can I have a double espresso please?”

“No,” Eponine croons dangerously in her heavy accent, “I fear you can’t have a _barista_ today because he works at the sex shop.”

“Uh, excuse…” Enjolras stops abruptly and so does his poor heart, “ _WHAT_.”

Eponine continues wiping a glass with a sweet smile that makes her look like she’s strangled people with that towel. “Ecoutes-moi, Barbie, my tip jar is _still_ empty!”

Enjolras narrows his eyes in fury and leans over the counter, making an honest effort to conceal his desperation. “Qu’est-ce que vous voulez?” he summons all the broken second grade French skills he’s got left.

“La question se trouve sur ce que _tu_ veux,” Eponine returns the question in her hoarse voice, leaning over in an equally threatening manner. “ _You’re_ the one who needs information.”

He searches in his pocket for a couple of remaining coins but her eyebrow maintains its unimpressed perfect angle, so he huffs as he finds his last couple of euros and her face finally lights up.

“Okay, so he works at a sex shop in Place Pigalle – _ouai quel cliché_ – and also he didn’t sound very well today.”

“And you blackmail the emotional wellbeing of your best friend through your tip jar?” Enjolras frowns. “ _Quelle sorte d'amie es-tu?_ ”

“D’une sorte extraordin- _aire_ ,” she snorts sarcastically, focusing on the last sound that makes Enjolras’ insides feel uncomfortable. Without another word, she returns to her coffee machine and puts it to work, casually preparing Enjolras’ drink as if she’s not spent the past four minutes discussing his non-existent love life with her best friend. It drives Enjolras crazy, and he can’t even keep it to himself anymore.

“Which…” he clears his throat elusively, incapable of believing in the words that come out of his own mouth. “Which sex shop is it?”

“Eh?” she hums innocently without even turning to face him behind the counter.

Enjolras shuts his eyes tightly and takes a deep breath before practically shouting: “There’s a lot of sex shops in Pigalle, how am I supposed to find it?”

Eponine is a cruel woman who turns around with a huge, lazy smile spread over her dark features, perfectly satisfied by the fact that the entire coffee shop has turned around and is currently staring at Enjolras who’s red as a revolutionary tomato. “What’s in it for me?”

He shoves his hand in his pocket without a second thought, trying to get out of it before the entire population of Paris learns that he’s in search of a human dildo with emotional capabilities and effects that are way beyond his ken, but Eponine leans over the counter with a dangerous glint in her eyes. “Donne-moi le numéro de Marius,” she whispers.

“What?” Enjolras chokes. “Of… _Marius_? You mean – as in _Pontmercy_?”

 “Uh huh,” Eponine draws back.

“Why – how… where do you know him from?”

“I stalked your Facebook,” she mutters, absently examining her nails, “He looks cute. I mean, you’re all fucking nerds, but this one is cute.”

“But… you live in different cities!”

She arches an incredulous eyebrow. “Sorry to break it to you…” she starts teasing, and he holds up a hand before hearing the end of it.

Enjolras wonders if this is the end of his life as he knew it. Steps back. Lifts his slumped shoulders with hurt pride. Clears his throat formally. Considers eloping to Hogsmeade and educating the house elves about the rights. Honestly, would Marius mind? He doesn’t really think he would. Eponine could be considered fairly attractive, in a quite intimidating way, even though Enjolras can’t tell because he’s not interested in women, at least hasn’t been till today. He’d never push his friend in a non-consented situation, but would it really harm him if they just brushed up their languages over Skype, or something? Marius could decide for himself, no pressure from anyone. He considers giving Eponine a false number. Then he looks at her and shudders. If he’s to die young, he’d rather it be in liberty’s name, not in that of Eponine’s Facebook crush.

He scribbles a number on the back of his receipt and grits his teeth tightly before signing with _Pontmercy_ and briefly considers reevaluating his life choices. Eponine grabs a sharpie and writes an address that tickles on the back of his hand, looking quite proud of herself. Enjolras thanks her several times and finally turns around to walk away from all those curious eyes that impale him and it’s okay, he’s almost out, he’s not paranoid, no one is staring…

“MONSIEUR!” a husky voice roars behind him, with a tone of amusement he cannot bear to take, “ _tu as oublié ton café..._ ”   

**[From: Courfeyrac] EPONINE CLALED JEHAN WHO CALLED ME AND SAID UR FINALLY ON UR WAY TO MEET UR DESTINY!!!!11!!**

**[From: Courfeyrac] TELL EVERYBODY YOU’RE ON YOUR WAY**

**[From: You] Courfeyrac.**

**[From: Courfeyrac] AND YOU’RE LVOING EVRY STEP YOU TAKE**

**[From: Courfeyrac] AND YOU CAN’T KEEP THIS SMILE OFF YOUR FACE**

**[From: You] COURFEYRAC**

**[From: Courfeyrac] CAUSE THERES NOTHING LIKE SEEING EACH OTHER AGAIIIIIINNAN**

**[From: Courfeyrac] no I’m like so emotional u don’t even understand**

**[From: You] Let me guess. It’s becase Koda’s mum died.**

**[From: Courfeyrac] that too**

**[From: Courfeyrac] aLSO HOW DARE YOU**

**[From: Courfeyrac] My baby boy is all grown up**

**[From: You] Do you do anything all day besides making no sense and skyping French people you’ve never met?**

**[From: Courfeyrac] Don’t use Jehan to conceal your own fucked up feelings**

**[From: Courfeyrac] CONCEAL DON’T FEEL DOn’t let them KNOOWWWW**

**[From: Courfeyrac] well now we KNOWWWWWWW ;-)**

**[From: You] Oh of course. THAT’S what you also do. You quote Disney songs.**

**[From: You] Help Courfeyrac what do I do?**

**[From: Courfeyrac] You face life you frustrated sloth**

**[From: You] What is life?**

**[From: You] wHAT AM I DOING??**

**[From: Courfeyrac] oh you will BRUSH AND BRUSH**

**[From: Courfeyrac] AND BRUSH AND BRUSH YOUR HAIR**

**[From: Courfeyrac] NOW WILL YOUR LIFE BEGIIIIIN**

**[From: You] He works at a sex shop.**

**…**

**…**

**…**

**[From: You] Courfeyrac**

**[From: You] COURFEYRAC**

**[From: Courfeyrac] So I’m looking up flights for your parents**

**[From: Courfeyrac] By which I mean Combeferre and me**

**[From: Courfeyrac] Combeferre is going to wear a tweed skirt and weep in a lace handkerchief**

**[From: Courfeyrac] Don’t you fret my offspring I shall arrange everything about your wedding dress**

**[From: Courfeyrac] Joly suggests you propose with cat gifs**

**[From: Courfeyrac] We WILL have vibrator discounts and freebies, right?**

**[From: Courfeyrac] I’m such a proud parent**

*

In retrospect, he shouldn’t have freaked out that much.

He should probably have freaked out much, _much_ more.

He doesn’t know how many times he’s already said that for a shitton of different stuff, and what that should make him think of the effects of his trip so far, but truth be told, he doesn’t know what he _should_ have expected. Maybe he should have paid Courfeyrac’s devoted narrations about sex shop more attention. Maybe he should have cringed less. Maybe he should have sacrificed something to Aphrodite, to make up for their lost time and make it _marcher plus facilement._ What were the odds?

But nope. Enjolras did nothing of that sort. Enjolras was feeling entirely too sure of himself on his metro ride to Pigalle. Enjolras thought he was brave. Enjolras thought that, if he’d survived several times from streets full of tear gas, surviving in an alley full of glow-in-the-dark dildos would be a piece of cake.

Against his better judgment, that was.

It’s not that he’s ever been in any way modest, shocked, or – heaven forfend – judgmental of other people’s sexual lives. Such words simply don’t occur when your childhood had been irreversibly scarred by Courfeysass. It’s just… It would have been uncomfortable enough to have himself involved in such a situation, without Grantaire and the entirety of his tattoos standing in an aisle, charmingly helping middle-aged ladies pick their porn (they should definitely have a serious conversation about the industry and the necessary conflict of feminism, liberal and paternalist theories), hyper teenagers buy their first vibrator, and scary, towering dudes try on their lingerie.

He inhales deeply and shuts his eyes tightly, trying to gain some time by hiding behind a DVD stall with titles such as _Monte Mon Barricade_ and _La Prise de la Pastille_. It would really suck to get a panic attack in the middle of such horrifying puns, as if the situation isn’t ridiculous enough as it is.

“So,” he hears a painfully familiar, hoarse voice with a slight accent muttering quietly behind his shoulder. “Didn’t fancy seeing your pretty face here when I left for work today.”

“You never _told_ me you worked here,” Enjolras turns around accusingly, with reflexes that take Grantaire by surprise, causing him to open his blue eyes widely and his pale lips to hang parted.

“You never asked,” Grantaire shrugs his shoulders, casually turning around and tidying a shelf of disturbing cock rings in the actual shape of roasters. “Is there a problem with that?”

Enjolras straightens his posture and clears his throat in what seems like perfect composure. “Well,” he huffs with a defeated yet sarcastic frown. “It would be quite hypocritical of me to give a positive answer, wouldn’t it? Still, I wish I knew earlier.”

“To have the time to give it more thought, uh?” Grantaire quirks a thick eyebrow. “You know what they say, before buying a dildo you should think _long and hard_!”

Enjolras groans painfully, unable to fight the flush of warmth that spreads over his cheekbones. “I’ve been _toying around_ with a few ideas,” he answers wryly.

“We’ve got excellent discounts on realistic dicks,” Grantaire croons with amusement, still managing to keep a straight face. “And special autumn deal, with half a dozen bottles of pumpkin flavored lube, you get a pack of peppermint condoms for the long, cold winter!” He sighs gravely. “Don’t worry, _cher_ , I’m used to being exploited by new friends after they learn about my side job.”

_Friends. So that’s what it is._

Now, it doesn’t sound _that_ obscene. Enjolras wonders why he had such trouble phrasing this all these days, if the train wreck in his chest has anything to do with the fact that it’s too early to be friends, too late to be enemies.

“Honestly now,” he says abruptly, “I thought we might use your help. We were considering the organization of a safe sex education campaign… I mean, Combeferre and Courfeyrac did.” Fuck. Grantaire has caught him staring at his tattoos.

_Hey, it’s not entirely his fault when they’re so unique and… and bright, okay?_

_No, not okay. Something is fucking wrong with him and he needs to get his shit together because he got_ that _close to the victim blaming mentality and that’s just plain fucking wrong._

_So why doesn’t he imagine his flatmate in that lime fishnet onesie instead._

_Or those red lacy panties…_

“Hey, Earth to Apollo?” Grantaire snaps his fingers before his face. “You okay? You look…” he bites his lip hesitantly, “you look all flushed.” His eyes follow Enjolras’. “Oh, so first time buying lingerie apart from that tricolor masterpiece you own?” a somewhat shaken smirk plays on his lips and Enjolras is not feeling well at all, no he isn’t. “Hey, get over your shit! You’re in a sex shop! Relax,” Grantaire places a hand on his shoulder, “explore thyself, and all that!”

“I, uh,” Enjolras croaks in a strangled voice, “I could go get some fresh air…”

Grantaire’s expression straightens up, his gaze darkening suddenly. “I finish in half an hour,” he says almost dazedly. “That good?”

“Yes,” Enjolras exhales half his life in a breath. “That sounds… good.”

*

They walk by the Seine because Grantaire’s life is meant to be a distasteful joke full of torturous clichés and he wonders if that ever was written in some absurd apocalyptic testament, if he was meant to walk side by side with a deity he worships in the least healthy way possible, their knuckles brushing together until Enjolras confidently wraps his fingers around his hand and Grantaire dies.

They climb down the stairs to walk by the riverside, Paris spreading above them carved in stone. Their hands are clasped tightly and Grantaire knows his palm is clammy and his heart is screaming. Enjolras leads him like he’s meant to, as if he’s the one who has the city mapped out in his brain instead of a man who’s spent his life there. They sit on the edge of the bank and Enjolras pulls his legs close to his body, his jeans riding up and uncovering his orange socks with the little owls that clash horribly with his red Converse. His lips are sealed with determination for something unidentifiable and his fiery eyes look almost hurt. He’s fierce and he can take over the world, yet at the same time he’s younger than this world will ever dream of being, and Grantaire wants to ask permission to protect him from it.

“Why do you hate me?” It sounds surreal.

 _I don’t hate you,_ he wants to say, _I love you in ways I couldn’t imagine people could love, I love you so much that I almost don’t hate myself for it, I love you in the same way I want to love this river, eternally and inconsistently without expecting anything in return, I love the way you will forever flow after I drown in you._

He doesn’t say that. All he says is. “What.” He runs his palm wearily down his face. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about, Apollo.”

Enjolras pouts, failing to read him through. “Why don’t you want us to talk?”

“Enjolras…” Grantaire sighs, summoning up all the energy he’s got left to reverse the question. “Do you hate _me_?”

“No!” the man blurts out, his cheeks all flushed up at the confidence of his own reply. “I don’t… I don’t hate you!”

“Why?” Grantaire chokes almost absurdly.

“Because I could never hate you! I mean, it’s like telling me to hate Paris. I just… _couldn’t_ , in the same way I could never hate hope and democracy and weather reports and... and everything else that might ever possibly let me down.” Enjolras takes a deep breath.

“I wish I wouldn’t let you down...” he chuckles bitterly.

A faint smile glows on Enjolras’ face. “What if you don’t?” Enjolras looks down at their clasped hands. Grantaire follows his gaze. Everything feels swollen in his chest, slowly creeping its way to his throat and not letting him breathe. “Grantaire,” he mutters softly and it’s got wings, it’s floating just above the surface, “I’ve never done this before.”

“I…” Grantaire’s voice breaks. “ _Fuck,_ Apollo _–_ I have nothing left to give you…”

“ _Laisse-moi te donner quelque chose_ ,” Enjolras smiles and the world goes iridescent. He’s stealing his breath but he doesn’t need it anymore, so he presses back slowly, taking as much as a kiss can ever give him. Enjolras’s breaths land rhythmic and heavy inside him, and Grantaire worships it. Their lips slide together and it’s easier than breathing, their fingers interlocking experimentally, crawling blindly around his heart that swells and then sighs to the sky that’s pressing beneath his eyes until he falls asleep, hoping he will never wake up as Enjolras kisses what’s left of him, and kisses it all.

*

Grantaire is avoiding him. Jehan has no intention of letting that happen.

**[From: Jehan] R is chez moi, come over whenever you want :)**

**[From: You] Jehan, I don’t know if I’ll make it to the party tonight.**

**[From: Jehan] You’re SO coming :3**

**[From: You]  I’m not sure that he wants to see me.**

**[From: Jehan] He’s moping around rn**

**[From: Jehan] You know what he wants, p’tit chou ;)**

He finds Grantaire in Jehan and Bahorel’s attic. They’ve both prior engagements to attend, inevitably leaving the two of them alone. He somehow manages to maintain a dignified distance even in the tiniest places, safe between the streaks of sunlight that make dust waltz amidst the wooden dimness of the room.

Enjolras steps carefully on the creaking floor, as if he’s trying not to awake a little animal.

“You coming tonight?” Grantaire mutters, teasing a thread of his sweater. Enjolras stands in the middle of the room, between old theatre costumes and ratty craft material, buckets full of paint, an old radio and a pair of boxing gloves, a broken mannequin with an aquamarine wig and towers of ancient, dusty books. There’s no place to sit but the patchwork cushions Grantaire is using in the corner of the room. Half his figure is shadowed and he looks small as he sits cross legged and barefoot, tangled between fabrics.

“I… I don’t know,” Enjolras clears his throat. “I might have some things I uh, need to finish.”

He doesn’t really know what to expect from Grantaire. He pats the cushions next to him, pulling his knees closer to his body. “You can’t decline one of Prouvaire’s invitation,” he cackles quietly. “You break his heart, he breaks your nose.”

He walks hesitantly next to Grantaire and lowers himself on the floor without really touching, but close enough to feel his hot breath brushing upon his skin. “Are you okay?” he asks somewhat cautiously, running his fingers clumsily through the tacky fabrics Grantaire is messing with. “You just… you disappeared.” He swallows hard. _Again._

Grantaire’s gaze wanders outside the tiny window. The sun is playing with his dark curls, bathing his blue eyes in light. “You’re leaving in two days,” he croaks. “You do remember that. Don’t you? Or is it, you know, just me?” Enjolras feels almost relieved at the return of the familiar sarcastic tone in Grantaire’s voice. “Too cynical, too pessimistic for my own good?”

“None of it is your fault,” Enjolras rushes to admit. “Fucked if this whole… thing makes any sense to me. But that doesn’t necessarily mean.” He shuts his eyes tightly until he’s in a room with grey mirrors and lets an incorrigible sound from the back of his throat. “We can try, okay? No deals, no consequences. We just… we don’t have to give up before it even starts.”

Grantaire’s smile darkens. “Sometimes I can’t even dress myself,” he says simply, as if that explains everything. In some peculiar way, it does. His fingers dig into a hole on his jeans, and then wonder how to undig it.

“I know,” Enjolras says and his insides twist. “I mean I don’t, I don’t know anything about you. But I want to learn. And… and I know that I can’t see you this way.”

“Oh?” Grantaire chuckles wryly. “I don’t know how you see me Enjolras, or what draws you to me, but I’m neither a cause for you to fix, nor the personification of Lady France _avec son charme et ses passions débauchés_. Sometimes I’m too cowardly to call my fucking _sister_ for months, let alone fall asleep over Skype and do the math for the time zone difference without completely _losing it_ in the process.”

“I know,” Enjolras simply assures him, his heart hammering wildly against his ribs. His thumb traces circles over Grantaire’s knuckles, feeling his hand relaxing gradually in his own.

Their fingers play together for a while, and it feels so real to be wrong. Enjolras wants to kiss Grantaire’s eyes. It’s like he can see through him for the first time, beneath the bitterness and the noise, as if he’s known him forever and now he comes to recognize him, an old voice that hums comforting lullabies in his head like a broken mixtape that feels like home, and he realizes how he’s missed their little talks. The sun plays tricks between their hair.

                 _does the sun in this city even know it’s October?_

Grantaire tastes like beer and smoke and has a faint scent of citrus and damp grass that doesn’t quite fit the season. His skin is rough and hairy beneath his threadbare shirt, Enjolras’ fingers draw maps over his spine, tracing over the curves on his stomach and feeling him flinch under his touch. “This place is not exactly what you’d call soundproof,” Grantaire murmurs against him with a shaky, husky chuckle, before clashing their lips together again and taking him in.

True to his words, a garland of fairy lights Enjolras hadn’t even noticed hanging on the low ceiling above their heads, lights up almost magically, and sappy music comes muffled through the shut door.

“Prouvaire, you’re a dick! Woodland, but a dick nonetheless!” Grantaire groans before cupping Enjolras’ face with his callused fingers and pulling him close.

“You smell of spring,” Enjolras mutters dazedly and Grantaire’s head vibrates as their foreheads rest together.

“Yeah, okay, it’s autumn though,” he snorts hoarsely, holding Enjolras close as if he’s afraid he’ll slip through his arms, “and you’re so fucking pretentious!”

They can hear ‘Nothing matters when we’re dancing’ blasting from outside. Grantaire cringes in embarrassment. Sunlight is filtered through the old objects and colorful fabrics, and dust hasn’t ceased to dance.

“Let’s save the dance for tonight, shall we?” murmurs Enjolras.

He can feel Grantaire smiling upon his lips. “We can do that, yeah.”

*

Enjolras can’t dance to save his life and that is a truth universally acknowledged. Honestly, Grantaire muses as he trips over Bahorel’s mum’s lamp and steps on his feet several time, before eventually tripping into the cat and causing the apocalypse, he’s fucking hopeless. He’s also dangerously blushing, nefariously non-apologetic, and harmfully adorable.

_he’s in his arms_

He’s drunk the same amount with Enjolras, which means that Enjolras is barely eloquent, while Grantaire is hardly even tipsy. Nowhere near drunk enough, he acknowledges it and considers the consciousness behind the decision, despite the need and deprivation actually burning through him. He keeps repeating it in his head, in every language he can speak. He can’t fuck up now, not in the last nights Enjolras is spending in Paris. Not when there’s creepy Jehan psychedelic music and Cosette and Bahorel have cooked to feed an entire gay pride, and all his friends dancing and having fun in the semi-dark because they’re a pretentious Parisian bunch and want to create an atmosphere. It’s simply too good to get wasted over it.

As for Enjolras, he’s currently having an intense conversation with Musichetta who meets Grantaire’s eye over the crowd and winks. She’s already had a fierce discussion with him, one he’d tried to get out of, expressing interest about Enjolras’ political organization – in a different fucking _country_ – and suggesting they should form a collaboration to bring some strong female voices to represent them. Still, how this is going to function in long distance terms, is beyond Grantaire.

It’s also beyond him that when he crosses the room, Enjolras waves and looks at him almost tenderly. Musichetta is trying hard to keep a straight face but Grantaire doesn’t mind because their hands are touching again, warm and sweaty, as he drags him in the middle of the room again and pulls him close for another dance. The others are wolf whistling and clapping despite Cosette’s disapproval, but Enjolras doesn’t really seem to care. He can feel the muscles of his face, usually tense and uncomfortable beneath the skin they live in, relaxing in an almost ecstatic smile as his eyes melt into Grantaire’s. It makes sense, he doesn’t know how but it does, all that creepy music he’d never listen to on his own but he guesses that’s how artists and their friends roll, the slight dizziness and the taste of canned pineapple on the tip of his tongue because _pineapple,_ and Enjolras simply couldn’t resist.

Grantaire is gorgeous and most of all, Grantaire is readable: the small grimace he hadn’t quite noticed before, and the way he throws his head back when he laughs. The way he bites his lip when he tilts his head that way during one of his sarcastic jokes, the way his hands rest with such expression on his friends’ shoulders when he wants to show his affection. How it feels to have his arm rest on his waist, his body vibrating next to his own as he talks, the weight of his palm on his abdomen as they dance, pooling need in the pit of his stomach, swinging their hips together and pressing their bodies close enough to feel his breath vibrating in his chest.

“Je veux te faire sentir bien,” he breathes in his ear and Enjolras feels lightheaded. There’s something cozier about a house party, something safer  than the colors of intimacy in the bar. Enjolras should know that already with Courfeyrac as a friend. The Smiths are playing on repeat, songs he’d never heard before, and he’s feeling so free, blindly wandering for Grantaire’s lips and getting granted a mouthful of hair instead.

Grantaire is dying slowly in his arms with every word they’re breathing into each other’s mouth. He’s young and alive, isn’t that what the song says, and he knows that can be nothing but an illusion, lights flashing madly between his eyelids, heavy with need, and fuck if he needs that, he could die right now, right here, before it fades away. Enjolras’ lips are sweet and soft, trailing kisses over his jawline, his hands are drunker than his head, touching parts of his skin Grantaire had long ago thought dead. His heart is pounding wildly over the music, his fingers are tracing circles on Enjolras’ waist underneath his shirt, curving into the backpockets of his jeans, trying to fight the throbbing in his own but no, he can’t do this nono _no,_ not to _him_.

Time Warp is buzzing in Grantaire’s ears and without looking he knows his friends are already dancing like they’ve all done together all these times before, but he’s quite preoccupied right now, with the fact that Enjolras’ angelic face is rather ruthlessly smashed upon his own as he shoves him against the kitchen door, breathing raggedly and _oh Helga,_ where did he possibly pick up that thing with the teeth, are virginal gods supposed to be inherently gifted with the tricks of seduction, how exactly is that fair? Of course the possibility dissolves into thin air the moment when Enjolras’ hands travel to the front of his jeans, palming him clumsily enough to make him cry in pain if he wasn’t already physically _hurting_ with the unresolved sexual tension, and what did he ever do to deserve this?

“Hey,” he gasp, dizzy with hyperventilation, pulling back to rest his mouth on the hollow above Enjolras’ collarbone. “You’re drunk.” Now _that’s_ something he never thought he’d hear himself saying. “We should get you home.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras runs his fingertips up and down Grantaire’s thigh over his pants, a hand sneaking back under Grantaire’s mussed shirt and outright feeling him up for which Enjolras has no intentions of protesting, not in this life. “Let’s go home,” he breathes fire on his skin, and Grantaire has to bite himself in order not to moan out loud just outside Jehan and Bahorel’s kitchen.

_Home. My place. My humble abode. My shithole extraordinaire. The place where you’ll live for the following couple of days. With me._

_Our home._

*

They’re lying half naked next to each other, and Grantaire already misses him.

Enjolras sleeps with his lips half parted, his alabaster chest rising and falling steadily with every peaceful breath. His hair looks sewn with silver in the rain that reflects from outside the window, spread in waves over the pillow. The sheets feel like marble, the natural extension of his chest and limbs, and the shadows of the night traffic from outside the window is tangled on his lap. He wants to rest his head on his heart, make sure he’s real, that what he’s seen in less than a day is real, but he doesn’t dare disturb his sleep. He’s seen him laugh at nothing at all, careless and beautiful like a boy, he’s seen his eyes overcast in the dim lights when his thoughts drifted to the world, he’s seen him with his mind board on a train and a plane and again, gnawing old travel tickets away from his mouth, flying away in a hundred different ways with his heart trapped in a suitcase.

He wonders if Enjolras is dreaming and selfishly decides he’ll feel warm nowhere but inside these dreams, he dares to claim them for his own until guilt builds up heavy in his chest. The worst nights are those when it doesn’t feel like you remember what the sun looks like, and then you realize that is because you’ve never met his eye.

Grantaire is nowhere near drunk enough.

He stands up and shivers violently at the cold. He throws on a heavy sweater without a t-shirt underneath, but lets his feet freeze bare on the mosaic floor. His jeans hang over the chair and he has a hard time untangling them from Enjolras’ clothes that smell of him and of the smoke in Prouvaire’s place and Grantaire needs to get out of the room.

Something in the kitchen makes him panic in the most muted way possible. The light is yellow and sick and reminds him of hospitals even though hospitals have white lights. The fridge makes a rotten sound and everything feels dull and Grantaire has to light a cigarette because his life is counting on it and his hands are shaking so violently that he has to balance it between his lips and grip over the sink for a little while, breathing in the smoke that twirls before his eyes and fogs the raindrops on the dark window pane.

If he feels a fucking mess with Enjolras sleeping peacefully on his bed, just in the next room, how the fuck is he supposed to make it when the bed will be empty and the pillows will still smell of him, and when it will be night all day because he’ll spend it with his head between his knees? How the fuck is he supposed to get used to the constant shaking on his hands when he already can’t paint and when rain will threaten to muss up all his colors, and he’ll see no astronomy maps and full moons and all the shit poets need to croon because he’ll be melting over Skype and he’ll clutch Snapchat over his chest to make his ribs vibrate again?

It was the first party he had so little to drink

and by little he means a fucking shitload

_Ça ne suffit pas_

Having it rehearsed means he can do it relatively calmly. 

He wraps his parka around his shoulders with relatively steady hands and even wraps a scarf around his neck before shutting the door carefully behind him. His fingers are frozen before he even walks around half the square and the space between the pavement and the soles of his boots feel blank. It’s raining freely and he’s already soaked by the time he gets to the bus stop – there are no metros at this hour of the night and it takes the bus forever to arrive. He decides to walk to Montmartre instead, feeling unexpectedly hyper, and it takes him less than the actual waiting. His hands are too numb to need to shove them in his pocket, the traffic lights are fading in and out of his hazy sight. The rain ceases midway. He so wishes he were curled in a bus seat right now. Not because he’s tired, he’s passed this point long ago. He’d just envisioned it this way. Who needs clean air to pull their shit together, everything feels far more wasted and dramatic from the inside of a gloomy, sleazy bus when it rains outside. It’s an intensified existential crisis, minus the artistic smoke out your mouth and the leather jacket hanging thoughtfully from your shoulder. It’s more like a Bastille song or more, a Bastille acoustic cover. You sit on your broke ass and you repeat that everything is shit and that you’re alone even when you aren’t because, at some point you’re going to be, and that’s why optimism is bad and tastes like ash when you try to swallow it.

By the time he’s reached the deserted Place du Tertre he’s wet, miserable and panting, and he has to sit midair because the ground is wet too, wrapped around his own knees like a frog in order to catch his breath. His head is pounding and he wants to throw up really badly but he can’t let himself collapse in some dark, frozen corner, so he starts walking instead, dragging in generous, cold breaths. Montmartre is meant to be for the morning but then again Montmartre is meant to be for never. It’s always ugly and it gets him down every time he visits it, a commercialized mausoleum with tourist traps that make him want to gag, maybe with the few satisfying exceptions of Rue des Trois Frères. Full of souvenir shops that sell Mucha’s posters in thousands next to kitchen towels with the Eiffel Tower badly sewn on them. He’s never felt jealous of the pseudo-bohème style of the portraitists who attack every passer-by and lavish them with cheap flattery. It’s like, it would be nice to pocket 40 euros for every doodle he’d make, but nope. Not his thing.

He always ends up feeling angry with himself. Montmartre is the only place in Paris he’ll never stop romanticizing, and refuse to remember how disappointed he’s been every time he returns there. Every properly angsty teenager went through their emo phase with Evanescence and that’s maybe the only horror that unites all the representatives of his generation. He did it with Charles Aznavour, which is in no way the same thing, but look. He’s here and he’s cackling under his breath because it almost looks this way, if you squint. It’s like the silent oath of shame for thinking Bring Me to Life was written for you. Now La Bohème, _that’s_ what’s been written for all the losers tantamount to his mentality. The difference is that Enjolras isn’t posing naked and he hasn’t painted in months, Enjolras is going to leave and he’s staying behind, there are no lilacs on his balcony – the last chrysanthemums Jehan brought him from the fleurist’s would die _a priori_ (accent in the last syllable).

_It’s night now._

What if they got to spend springs together, uh? An April morning tangled in sheets that would smell of gardenias? A lazy Sunday afternoon with the sun bathing their laps, braiding his hair with flowers, getting drunk in cold coffee and pressing their feet close together because it’s the last parts of their bodies that haven’t changed seasons and stubbornly insist on their icicle form. What if they spent a couple of evenings like in the song, forgetting to eat and sharing the same friends? He could stare at them forever arguing and delivering the world with the flame. He could just nurse his beer, cold and relieving like a shower, and smile at their youthful glow. Oh yes darling, _on était jeunes, on était fous,_ it’s nice to have your life painted as if you’ve burst out of a teenage indie movie, isn’t it? There’s got to be at least one sunset scene into it. And a sunrise one. And a fake Turner quote – or is it not – about the differences between them. Bullshit, Grantaire declares. Sunrise only happens to have an R in English, sunset doesn’t, but in French _cRepuscule_ does, and _aubE_ just has an E. Two different things, waking up and dying, even when the latter’s romanticized and glorified.

He’s at the bottom of the stairs and Sacre Coeur is peaceful and glows in the remnants of the rain. He walks to the edge and watches the overcast dark purple city as it still sleeps with the lights turned on outside the rooftops that get tickled by the first layer of morning mist. _N’importe quoi._

It’s okay, he guesses. Montmartre in 5-ish AM. It’s all dark and still night, but then it isn’t, and Grantaire finally goes to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations (with the ever so kind help of epicnessatitsbest):  
> Qu’est-ce que vous voulez?: What do you want?  
> La question se trouve sur ce que tu veux: The question is what do /you/ want.  
> Quelle sorte d'amie es-tu?: What sort of friend are you?  
> D’une sorte extraordin-aire: Of an extraordinary sort  
> Donne-moi le numéro de Marius: Give me Marius' number  
> tu as oublié ton café: you have forgotten your coffee  
> marcher plus facilement: work/march more easily  
> Laisse-moi te donner quelque chose: Let me give you something  
> avec son charme et ses passions débauchés: with its charm and its debauched passions  
> Je veux te faire sentir bien: I want to make you feel good (this sounds quite ridiculous now that i'm rereading it oh my god)  
> Ça ne suffit pas: It isn't enough


	5. Un soir qui m'a rendue bien triste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re a beautiful person, talented and loving and…” he strokes Grantaire’s arm, feeling the cold from outside that his flatmate brought into the apartment, “and you mean a lot to me.”
> 
> Grantaire exhales painfully, his eyes lowered at their touch. “You’ve known me for like, four days.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I am, half a year later, and I know you've all lost faith in me but to my defense _I've_ lost faith in me so yay haha. Still I returned, and this is crap, but I really need to finish this story because I'm certain that leaving unfinished a fic about Paris must be bad luck. So, here are our babies feeling sad about feeling happy and that makes us really sad and happy at the same time oh god I'm rambling I gotta stop writing. Or start writing, after all. Or something.  
>  As always, please do excuse my French and tell me about whatever mistake you spot (in French or English, for that matter).  
> Title from Coeur de Pirate's 'Place de la Republique'.

He wakes up with a gasp, without even knowing what part of the day it is, his mouth dry as sandpaper and his collarbone glistening with sweat. _I should shower before I go to class,_ is the first thing that comes to his mind, and then

_I’m late, I’m late, I’m late –_

It’s horrifying for as long as it lasts, a couple of minutes or less, because he _is_ late, he knows he is, only he figures out that he’s in Paris, and it’s not for class.

He sits heavy on the edge of his bed, rubbing his eyes in denial until he gets used to the light. He looks down at himself, half naked and already shuddering at the chill of the room. Falling in bed with last night’s clothes is not a rare occurrence, not when most of the time his responsibilities require skipping meals and rest for several days. It’s just, falling in bed _without_ clothes has hardly ever happened, not because he doesn’t prefer the comfort and security of nothing but the sheets wrapped around his skin, but because, well, Courfeyrac is enough exhibitionism for a household and someone's gotta keep a balance.

He can still feel the pressure of their limbs tangled together, no matter how fuzzy the details are, all but the warmth of his body pressed against him, his scent all over the place, lingering in the air and swirling like a drug in his head. For a moment there, he’s happy, obnoxiously and artlessly so, and then he’s scared, and it's out of his mind.

It’s too early for Grantaire to be at work, he can tell by how off-place the traffic sounds from outside the window, and how bashful is the light. He gets up and throws on an oversized t-shirt he finds tossed on the floor, the familiar scent wrapping him into a tranquil sense of intimacy. He takes a moment to stretch his bones in weird curves, before standing up and heading to the kitchen, hoping to feel better there.

There are two reasons why going to the kitchen can’t really feel that good after all. One, he realizes he doesn’t actually know how to use the freaking coffee machine because somebody else has been making him coffee for the last week. Two, getting a boner in somebody’s kitchen while said somebody is actually missing, is hands down weird.

He eventually finds out that a major in poli-sci and a minor in history render him capable enough to get acquainted with a new coffee machine, and it’s one of those silly tiny steps that make him feel even more like home. The alarming sense of waking up and having things waiting for him like they should do at home is still lingering uncomfortably in the bitterness of the coffee, immensely settling even in the absence of brushed teeth and something to eat. He considers texting Grantaire but something doesn’t feel entirely too right about it. He throws on a pair of jeans, instead, and his coat over the t-shirt that doesn’t belong to him, walking out of the apartment and down the stairs to head to the boulangerie around the corner.

The sun is shining through a few puffy clouds on the early sky. He tries to recall searching for shapes in the clouds as a child. He played that all the time, he knows that because he remembers arguing with Combeferre. He always saw dragons and knights, while Combeferre saw DNA spires and all kinds of dogs. One day he saw Stalin, and then they fought, but maybe it was because Combeferre had _borrowed_ Enjolras’ crayons for a science experiment.

He wonders if Grantaire ever played that game. If he saw magical elephants or nymphs and dryads, and gigantic cakes floating in the air. Enjolras himself could use some cake right now, so he buys one for their breakfast and a petit pain au chocolat for Grantaire. Everything seems brighter when there's chocolate in the plan, so he flies up the five stories of stairs as if they don't exist, preparing breakfast, slightly more enthusiastic than he should be, without an actual apparent reason. Sipping his coffee, he types a quick message on his phone and sends it before he can change his mind.

**[From: Enjolras] Are you out? Do you have work today? Should I wait for you?**

He feels lazy today, and it's still a task to allow himself doing so guiltlessly. He savors the pleasure of doing nothing for a few minutes, staying in the bed he was invited into that night, staring at light rainbows lacing around the ceiling, blowing a blond curl away from his face as if it's the most interesting thing in the world. Checking his phone and seeing no response, he takes up on wandering around Grantaire's room while shaving and wearing his pants. It's almost tenderly that he admires Grantaire’s paintings and touches his books, never intending to intrude in anything personal, until it happens beyond his greatest measure.

They’re in the book he opens to have a look at, in more than one books, scattered sketches pressed between the pages like dried flowers that teenagers keep inside their journals. They’re wrinkled and smudged, some of them done in a hurry, others beautifully filled with watercolors, and Enjolras forgets how to breathe.

He knows he shouldn’t be doing this, that it’s wrong and invasive and that Grantaire should hate him for it, but they’re into his hands and he simply can’t take his eyes away from his reflection on the paper. His heart is plummeting wildly in his chest as he stares back at him, sketched and painted several times, a few roughs and a portrait, and then it’s all of him and there’s flowers, poppies everywhere and it can’t be true because _he can’t look like that, he can’t look like that_ through Grantaire’s eyes _yet it can be no one but him._

And then he hears the door of the apartment opening and his heart freezes, managing to slide the sketches into the books as he steps echo in the corridor.

His gaze follows Grantaire as it falls on the shut books and Enjolras knows it’s too late. Part of him wants to cry with shame, while the rest of him simply wishes to wrap his arms around Grantaire and pepper him with kisses, because he’s everything. Grantaire’s eyes look transparent and dead, fixed on the book that’s out of its shelf, staring it so intently as if he’s gonna set it on fire.

“I want to talk about it,” Enjolras hears his shaky voice growing confident.

“I don’t,” he replies wryly, still all petrified, apart from his hands clenching slowly into fists on his sides.

“Too bad,” Enjolras sighs, “because all I want is to admire your work… and say I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean for that to happen without your consent.”

“It did though, didn’t it?” Grantaire asks hoarsely, unclenching his fists and bringing his hand to the light to examine them. “I don’t need your validation, Apollo. Or your pity.”

“It’s not…” Enjolras groans, throwing his head back with embarrassment. “Fuck, it’s not my validation! I’m – I’m so sorry this happened okay? I’d never do that if I knew. I saw that book from Simone de Beauvoir, the autobiographical one, and there was a dog ear.”  He pauses, raising his eyes and trying intently to meet Grantaire’s gaze. “I just needed to see what it was, if it was something you’d liked, agreed or disagreed with.” They finally look at each other, and his heart flutters. “That was what you should blame me for, I shouldn’t have done that, it could have been something personal.” He takes a deep breath, “ – … _le mal dont je souffrais, c’était d’ avoir été chassée du paradis de l’enfance et de n’avoir pas retrouvé une place parmi les hommes._ ”

“ _Paradis de l’enfance_ mon cul,” Grantaire snorts. “So, you found my shit in that book, why are you being all apologetic and dramaticabout it? Not your fault I’m a creepy fucking stalker,” he cackles dryly.

“Actually there’s only one creepy stalker I can see here, and that’s definitely not you.” Enjolras wipes the distance between them with a somewhat hesitant step. “You’re a beautiful person, talented and loving and…” he strokes Grantaire’s arm, feeling the cold from outside that his flatmate brought into the apartment, “and you mean a lot to me.”

Grantaire exhales painfully, his eyes lowered at their touch. “You’ve known me for like, four days.”

“Oh,” Enjolras uplifts an eyebrow. “So, _you’ve_ known me for longer?”

“You don’t fucking know how I get,” Grantaire mutters under his breath, slowly backing away from his touch, “I’m not a fucking _delight,_ I will disappoint you and make you hate me.”

“Need to work harder with that,” Enjolras cracks a smile. “Listen, I know it seems hard, we can do this, okay? I’m not a frail dandelion needing protection from the bad of this world, neither are you, as you aren’t a failed human being as you make yourself seem.  People survive through distance, we can be patient and want each other just the way we are, because people are different and fighting happens and _I want you_ _for you,_ okay? R?” he doesn’t make an effort to touch him this time, but he does it with his voice. “We can try.”

“Putain, c’est _incroyable,_ ” Grantaire’s shaky, distorted cackle is barely heard. “I can’t believe you fucking _want me_ …”

“You could try…”

“This isn’t all about you and what you want.” He’s twisting a thread from his shirt around his finger until he cuts circulation. Then, he lifts his eyes. “You can’t fix everything you believe in, kid.”

Enjolras doesn’t know what to say. His pulse, pounding tumultuously up to that moment, now feels dull against his meninges. Something is blocking his throat, threatening to combust. It can’t be tears, _you can’t be sad for something that isn’t real_

_it doesn’t feel real to him_

“I wish I could see it the way you do, but I wasn’t made to do this. Maybe… maybe we weren’t made to do this together.” His smile is distant, and it tastes like poison on Enjolras’ lips. “ _Vas chez toi, mon ange_.”

The first tears block his vision and make him feel stupid. He swallows them dry, as if it’s the most dignified thing to do.

“You’ll always feel like home to me.”

*

Sometimes Combeferre’s voice is calm and comforting, making you feel at home.

Some others, it’s the punch in the guts you’ve needed all along.

“You need to focus on your breathing and talk about everything that feels worth talking about, otherwise try to sit down and put your thoughts in order.”

“Enjo, can you hear me?” Courfeyrac has some moments for tenderness, and it’s even more essential when they’re in the two sides of the world, clinging desperately on a shitty quality videocall. “You need to know in advance that this isn’t something to push back or to feel bad about, no matter how ridiculous your coping mechanism might be when it comes to feelings, okay?”

“You are so important to us, and we honestly think what is happening to you is completely normal.”

“Whatever it is we know it sucks, but it’s going to be okay eventually!” Courfeyrac coos. “We’re here! I mean, 10000km away, but still here!”

“I know,” he sniffles pathetically, wiping his eyes with his sleeve, “and I feel like shit because…” he breathes shakily, “because I should want to return home to you after all? But… but I really don’t?”

His friends’ blurry picture moves slowly as they exchange a glance.  “Enjolras,” Combeferre leans closer to the camera. “Home, now that’s a big word,” he slides his fingers under his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “it isn’t only where you were born, okay?”

“It’s supposed to be where… where your family and friends are, or something, isn’t that what they say in the movies?”

“Well, the movies don’t always consider spiritual connections with borrowed motherlands and cute baristas who can give you dildo discounts…”

“I just… I want to be with him. I want to stay here, with _him_ , and – fuck, I want my life to _be_ like this but I want to be with you too…”

“Your future is not predetermined, you don’t know anything about it yet, you can work to make it the way you want…”

“Ferre, that sounds kind of dramatic.”

“I was taught from the best, dear…”

Courfeyrac turns to Enjolras abruptly. “You’ve _got_ to make the most of it!” he shouts. “Otherwise you’re no longer my child!”

“Courf, I’m not…”

“Hush, little one! You go tap that booty and make the heavens sigh and bliss, and then…” Courfeyrac gets dangerously close to the screen, his nose and eyes surreally enlarged as he winks meaningfully, “then we all move to Paris and get married to the hot librarian!”

The call is ended and Enjolras considers that maybe, just _maybe_ , he’s losing his grip on reality. It’s less than half an hour later, when he receives a message on his phone from a French number.

**[From: Unknown] rdv au musain, immédiatt.**

rdv?

Oh right, rendez-vous.

**[From: You] C’est à qui, ce numéro?**

He waits curled up on the couch for the reply, which comes in less than a minute.

**[From: Unknown] tu m’emmerdes**

**[From: Unknown] it’s éponine. ur con of a bf is held hostage**

*

This isn’t happening, their friends are not _that_ fucking tacky, Éponine _didn’t_ conspire with Combeferre over Skype to matchmake them with Monsters and men on the background, his fucker of a friend didn’t try to intimidate his foreign crush with croissants and café crème, she didn’t.

Only she damn right did.

“I’m sorry about my friends.”

“I’m sorry about mine too.”

“I’m also sorry about the pisswater they served you. They wouldn’t let me make you some.”

“It wasn’t that bad but nowhere as good as yours.”

“I’m sorry we had to come over the Buttes Chaumont as if the whole thing wasn’t always cringeworthy enough.”

“I’m really not.”

Grantaire turns to face him, starting to wonder how more absurd this whole situation can become. It’s good to look away from something so sickeningly beautiful that it makes your eyes hurt, such as this park on an afternoon beneath clouds that dissolve, complete with the lesbian mommies playing with their son and all the dogs wagging their tails and stealing food. Then again, it hurts even more to look at him, all flushed and frowning somewhere in the pretentious distance. It’s a mess, really, for his fucked up head to take. Everything seems to be swimming, the sun gliding over the lake mirror, his curls in the wind and his lips in your mind, the willows and the ducks are you’re done, so fucking done with this shit.

“Sometimes I really wish I could hate you,” Enjolras grunts.

“Sometimes I really wish I couldn’t.”

That does it for the blond boy, and he turns around to burn through Grantaire with his gaze. He really wishes he’d look away. “So you _do_ hate me?”

“Honestly?” Grantaire drags a greedy inhale of air, staring at Enjolras from where he’s laying on the grass, the whole angle making this whole statue power dynamic thing even more unhealthy. “I really hate everything about this.”

Enjolras lowers his body next to his, not daring to swallow as if it’s going to echo blunt and obnoxious over the words he’s waiting to hear.

“I hate counting down, I’ve told you before and I hate that I miss you already even though you're still here, and that I don’t know you _enough_ to make sure that I’ll remember your voice when you’re angry and the tiny lisp that you make when you’re trying to speak French and you’re excited and the squinting of your eyes when you’re concentrating on something pretentiously hard and… and I hate trying to have to pull you up in my mind through photos, static like a patchwork or like a scratched record, replaying itself when I go out on the balcony to smoke or in the kitchen to make crêpes and remember that you were there and there _and there_.” Enjolras feels his throat tighten and he notices himself shuddering as Grantaire rubs his thumb over his knuckles, mismatching, as if unaware, his own words. “I’m scared,” he breathes softly upon his face and his voice cracks, if not with a faint smile, “of feeling even _more_ alone than I do now, y’see? Alone and lost and insecure as if – _merde,_ as if I’m not already wondering where my shit is and what I’m supposed to do with it while you have it all together.”

 _He doesn’t have it together. Him not having it together was the reason he dropped everything and got in some damned fucking plane in first place. He’s got absolutely_ no _shit together, but he’s not going to say anything about it because he’s been so used to having it invalidated by professors and parents, so used to being told all by friends that all he needed was a break and he_ did _take a break and now the break is over and he’s losing it already, but it’s always been a comparison and a competition and now they’re both losing, which means that one of them needs to hold on to the only thing that makes sense anymore –_

 “Why can’t we have nice things?”

“Are you literally _begging_ to see my sappy side?”

Grantaire chuckles quietly. “Heaven forbid such a side to exist!”

“Well,” Enjolras swallows down a lump, running his palm down Grantaire’s scruffy cheek. “I don’t know about you but I’m having a nice thing now…”

Grantaire visibly cringes and shuts his eyes. “Don’t go there –”

“…You,” Enjolras smiles triumphantly.

“Fucking _Christ_ you didn’t.”

“You were asking.”

Grantaire shuts him up with a kiss, turning on his side and tugging on his shirt so close until their foreheads are pressed together and their noses are plastered against each other, almost tasting the grass that’s the only thing that sneaks between their breaths. He sighs softly against the rough lips, loosening up in his hands and letting him touch his face in ways that feel like drawing, like taking him in and laying him on paper, tracking mental lines that he’ll need to trace again and again to remember paths they’ve planned to cross on some shared map, in some old wooden attic room with fireflies and blankets.

They break the kiss and lie with their foreheads entwined on the grass. Enjolras’ cheeks hurt from smiling and momentarily he wonders whether he’d prefer to be down to earth for once, to realize it was _bad_ and it was going to get worse and he probably shouldn’t be feeling so insanely happy.

“I just don’t see a reason in depriving myself of something that makes me a better person, of something I care deeply for, is all. Just tell me you don’t want this and I’ll leave you alone, I promise,” he murmurs, pressing his lips on Grantaire’s forehead.

“Fuck you’re ridiculous,” he rasps, “and I still can’t believe you want me.”

The silence that follows is not silence, the sun that makes their cheeks burn is not telling the truth.

“I can’t believe how much I want you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> le mal dont je souffrais, c’était d’ avoir été chassée du paradis de l’enfance et de n’avoir pas retrouvé une place parmi les hommes: the bad I have suffered, it was having chased the paradise of childhood and not having found a place among people.  
> paradis de l’enfance mon cul: paradise of childhood my ass  
> Putain, c'est incroyable: Fuck, it's unbelievable  
> Vas chez toi, mon ange: Go to your place, my angel  
> rdv au musain, immédiatt.: Rendez-Vous at the Musain, immediately  
> C’est à qui, ce numéro?: Whose is this number?  
> tu m’emmerdes: you're shitting me  
> con: asshole


End file.
